


a door behind a door

by Nonymos



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: ...sort of, ANYWAY on to the proper tags, Actual King T'Challa, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Culture Shock, Family Secrets, Fruits Basket au, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Shapeshifter T'Challa, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, War Veteran Steve Rogers, also sort of, boo w'kabi you suck and nobody likes you, frank opinions on american imperialism, general ross is the Worst, more like loosely based on the general concept of Fruits Basket, quickly devolving into awkward romance between two stoic idiots, so it's really okay if you haven't read it, tropey tropey, wakandan political intrigue, with many Wakandan adjustments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-27 07:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: Steve Rogers is a veteran with a few medals on his chest and too much death on his mind. T’Challa is the Wakandan King, Protector of the Tribes, Heir of Bashenga, and Black Panther—in a very literal way. Neither of them expected to get to know the other so well, but Bast sees all and knows best.





	a door behind a door

**Author's Note:**

> And here is my second fic for the Cap RBB 2018! Thank you SO MUCH to the amazing [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/) for being such an absolute delight to work with, making such gorgeous, _adorable_ art, and giving me such a cute, fun, original prompt!! Also for reminding me that Fruits Basket exists. :D You rock!

 

 

 

 

Steve woke up with a start when the wheels hit the tarmac, feeling disoriented that he’d fallen asleep at all. Civilian life had made him soft in unexpected ways.

He straightened up in his seat and pulled up the window shutter, blinking fast when golden light seeped in, thick and liquid like honey. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the sunset glow, the plane had slowed down to a sedate rolling pace. The runway cut a swathe of asphalt through tangled, verdant jungle.

When the doors opened, hot humid air rushed in, permeating everything from his hair to his clothes. A heavy scent of soil rolled in the atmosphere, along with birdcalls he’d never heard before.

“Get used to breathing soup,” Thaddeus Ross grunted next to him. “Christ, at least Afghanistan had some dry heat.”

Steve had served in Iraq, not Afghanistan, but he’d learned some time ago that talking to Ross never yielded any productive results—and contrary to popular opinion, he knew how to pick his battles. He got up, took his luggage from the compartment overhead, and walked out of the plane after smiling at the attendants.

“All-Black crew. That’s how you know we’re not in Kansas anymore, eh?” Ross guffawed, then clapped Steve’s shoulder. “Better not make that joke in front of the Wakandan king.”

Steve’s jaw worked, but he remained silent. Ross would fly back to US soil the next day, so there wouldn’t be much more of him to endure; and as a decorated veteran, Steve had mastered the fine art of tuning out Army officials. Look at him, not jumping into fights anymore. His mom would have been proud.

The air _was_ thick, at that. Steve didn’t look forward to wearing his dress uniform at the embassy meeting, with just a few hours to freshen up. But looking around him from the top of the plane’s ramp, he felt some kind of tentative wonder at the thought of living here, in a country that was so completely foreign to him.

He’d never left America before, except to deal death and destruction in the flimsy name of patriotism, which had earned him some shiny ribbons and cost him—everything. At the time, coming back stateside to nothing and no one, he’d thought his life was over in all the ways that mattered. And there he was now, ten years later. As much as he despised his own Medal of Honor, he had to admit it was a key to some unexpected doors.

“Mr. Ambassador.” The man waiting on the tarmac was wearing a beautiful and intricate scarf, black and silver and deep dark blue. “I am His Majesty T’Challa’s Chief of Security. It’s an honor to have you here.”

“An honor to be here,” Steve said, shaking his hand. “Please, call me Steve.”

If the Chief of Security was surprised, he showed nothing of it. “Then you will call me W’Kabi.” He greeted Ross in turn, then motioned to follow. “This way, please.”

An embassy car with sleek, futuristic lines was waiting a few feet away, no doubt so they could bypass customs entirely. Their luggage had already been delivered from the plane and was being packed into the trunk. Steve wasn’t used to that kind of luxury, and hoped his discomfort wouldn’t show. He knew this was only the beginning. Ambassador—could he really live up to that title without making a fool of himself?

“You’ll be lucky if you can understand what they’re saying half of the time,” Ross grunted as soon as W’Kabi was out of earshot. “Ha—the accent might actually rub off on you after a few years here. Imagine that!”

“It sounds very refined to me,” Steve said blankly, opening the car door. “After you, General.”

 

*

 

T’Challa exhaled deeply, then adjusted the high collar of his long-sleeved tunic.

After a long internal debate, he’d decided to wear one of his strictest outfits, black with a muted silver embroidery, so he wouldn’t clash too much with his olive-colored guests. The Americans were sure to be in dress uniform, even though the future ambassador had been honorably discharged for over ten years now. It seemed one never truly left the US Army.

He slipped on the soft gloves of Shuri’s making; her latest and, by definition, her best. Made of artificial suede, they were tuned to match the color of his skin at all times, seamless and so thin they wouldn’t show on pictures. A handshake was necessary on this day, for posterity; after the officials had gone home, he could inform the ambassador that protocol required him to nod at the king from a distance.

“My King,” Okoye said at the door, with the purring satisfaction she always put in those words. “They’re here.”

“So, it’s happened,” he said without looking up, smiling. “We’ve opened our borders, the foreigners have come. Was it everything you’d always feared?”

“I have no fear for our country, not under your rule.” Disdain seeped into her voice. “General Ross, however, could stand to be a little _more_ afraid. Twice now he’s called me _Miss.”_

“No international incident on the first day, we agreed. What about the ambassador?”

“Rogers? He’s very silent. Some say it’s the best way for a stupid man to appear clever.”

“Okoye,” T’Challa scolded, despite the smile still playing on his lips.

General Ross was famously crude, but he wouldn’t stay long. Captain Rogers was more worrying. In keeping with the USA’s tiring trend of late, he had no experience or qualifications for the job; but he _was_ a war hero, which meant his appointment could only be—officially—perceived as a great honor. The pictures would only further that impression. Rogers cleaned up well. Despite having been retired for a decade, his wide shoulders still stretched the cloth of his dress uniform, and he had a face to match his physique, chiseled and perfect. So much of politics was based on appearances.

T’Challa was in no hurry to meet him, much less work with him for an indefinite amount of time. But those were the cards he’d been dealt; and as far as international politics went, this was not a crisis.

“All right.” He flexed his gloved hands and finally looked up at Okoye. “Lead the way, General.”

 

As soon as he appeared in the conference room, flashes flickered in the air; a chosen few journalists from two dozen countries had warmed up the enclosed atmosphere to quite uncomfortable levels. Rogers got up as soon as T’Challa entered. Anxious to make a good impression, maybe. The rest of him matched T’Challa’s expectations, good looks and dress uniform included.

Now was the time. Just one touch—then it’d be over.

“Mr. Ambassador,” T’Challa said, stepping forward with his hand outstretched.

“Your Majesty,” Steve Rogers answered, giving him a firm handshake.

His expression shifted to slight confusion. He had realized T’Challa was wearing gloves.

T’Challa felt the exposed skin of his face prickle him—but there was no danger, despite the closeness. Western men did not kiss other men on the cheek. And Rogers could draw no conclusions from this brief moment, which lasted only long enough for pictures to be taken. Already, it was done. T’Challa breathed out.

Next was a time for words. T’Challa’s speech flowed out with grace and ease; Rogers’ answer was stilted in parts, surprisingly earnest in others, but generally understated, as if he did not yet know what image he should give of himself. General Ross spoke next, obviously well-rehearsed, and managed to restrain himself from making any unseemly comments—though the tone of his voice was akin to insult many a time. Behind him, Rogers remained so stonily impassive that his expression could have been mistaken for a glare.

T’Challa couldn’t help being intrigued. There had been no condescendence in Rogers’ speech or actions, and there he was now, quietly radiating anger at Ross. Was it possible he disapproved of his superiors? But then how had he contrived to be sent here?

The room kept getting hotter by the minute. By the middle of the ceremony, as officials of lesser importance took their turn speaking on the platform, Rogers sat back in his chair and tried to discreetly fan himself with the pages of his speech. It didn’t keep the color off his cheeks. But when the Queen Mother Ramonda came in deliver her blessing to the proceedings, Rogers made an evident effort to sit still and listen, despite the sweat gleaming at his temples.

It was this last show of goodwill that pushed T’Challa into making a terrible mistake.

 

*

 

“Mr. Ambassador.”

Steve startled; he hadn’t noticed King T’Challa sidling up to him.

“There is a water room down the hallway, should you like to freshen up before the concluding speech.”

He didn’t sound mocking, but Steve felt his cheeks heat up even more. “That bad?”

“It’s a humid heat,” the king said lightly. “I wouldn’t expect you to be used to it already.”

“Actually, I kind of am. Summers in Brooklyn, you know. But, um, the dress uniform’s a nightmare,” Steve added quickly, getting up from his chair. “Thank you—your Majesty. I’ll be just a minute.”

He walked out of the conference room feeling like a complete tool. What was he doing, taking a trip down memory lane with the Wakandan King? He wasn’t little Stevie Rogers from Vinegar Hill anymore, ready to make friends with anyone that didn’t try to punch him on sight.

Moving through cool stone corridors was a lot less stifling than just sitting around seething with contempt for Ross. Steve felt better already. He took a few wrong turns before he got to the water room—a beautiful nook of lava stone and black volcanic glass, with flat gold taps. He hooked two fingers under his collar and removed his tie, then splashed his face.

He couldn’t stay long; they needed to shake hands again when the show was over. After only a minute in here, he was beginning to feel antsy. He took a few large gulps of fresh water and wiped his mouth; then, disregarding the silver mirror, he did his tie again as he walked out of the room, straining his eyes down to make sure he wasn’t fucking it up.

When he looked up a few seconds later, he was completely lost.

“What?” he mumbled.

He looked around but didn’t recognize anything. He must have taken more than a few wrong turns while he was blindly walking around, focused on his Windsor knot. Panic spiked up his spine. Formal events could send him spiraling in a way battlefields never had. He needed to stay calm, he just needed to find his way back—he must still have time…

Then the sound of applause spurred him into walking faster, almost at a run. Goddammit, the end of the ceremony! Real neat, Rogers, top notch performance, royal offense on the very first day! But he shouldn’t panic—if he could hear the reporters, he couldn’t be that far—just at the turn of the hallway—

“Captain Rogers?” said a voice, and it was the only warning he got before he ran straight into T’Challa.

The impact was so brutal it felt like everything happened at the same time. Pain exploded in Steve’s nose, which had collided with the king’s;  a burst of air blew over his face; and a heavy weight crashed onto his chest, making fall on his ass completely.

Tears of pain were blurring his vision. He blinked, scowled, and felt another pang of fear when he brought his fingertips down to look at them—but there was no blood. He managed to take a breath. The final photo wouldn’t be ruined.

“Your Majesty, I’m so sorry,” he said in a nasal voice. “Are you—”

And then he stared at the panther in his lap.

 

 

The cat looked about as confused as him. It was frozen in a half-crouch, looking up at him with wide yellow eyes. Steve was so bewildered it didn’t even occur to him to be afraid, even though he was pinned down. It was a beautiful animal, sleek and shining, and _heavy,_ much bigger than he would’ve imagined.

Gradually, as if struggling through the barrier of likelihood, a very recent memory came back to Steve: the burst of air which had just blown up in his face. Like something small had replaced something big.

“No,” he said slowly.

No, T’Challa had gone ahead, back to the conference room. He was sure to return in a minute and ask why Steve hadn’t followed.

But there was a _panther in his lap._

And T’Challa wasn’t _there._

In the end, Steve didn’t have to struggle with the possible and the impossible for much longer: another burst of air and T’Challa was suddenly back, quickly scooting away and getting to his feet. His chest was heaving with fast, shallow breaths; his eyes were wide. Not a hair of him was out of place, and his long tunic was still tightly fitted to his perfect frame.

They stared at each other until Steve realized the applause had died down, replaced with some loud murmuring.

“Crap—” He quickly got to his feet. “Your Majesty, I—I think we have to go.”

T’Challa stared at him for a split second, then shortly said, “Yes,” and both of them were off.

They entered the conference room side by side, smiling, and a flurry of flashes clicked to life like a swarm of dragonflies clipping through the air. They shook hands again. Steve felt the almost imperceptible fabric of T’Challa’s glove against his bare hand, and finally, fully realized what had just _happened_.

He didn’t understand any of the implications, he didn’t know how or why that was even _possible,_ but he’d obviously stumbled across the reason Wakanda had stayed hidden for so long. Something nobody could have ever imagined, not in a million years.

This, he suddenly thought, was the definition of _seeing something he shouldn’t have._ It probably meant he was going to be killed as soon as he stepped out of the room. He forced his mouth to smile for another picture. Even ambassador immunity only went so far.

 

*

 

The few hours after the conference were the tensest of T’Challa’s life. Glory to Bast. So much for this _not_ being an international crisis.

He took care never to leave Rogers alone, _especially_ not with Ross. The staff discreetly got the old man thoroughly inebriated to make sure he couldn’t walk straight, much less give enough credit to whatever fantastic tale Rogers might attempt to sell him. He was flying out of the country in the morning; that would be one loose end dealt with. Rogers would remain, alone, in an environment T’Challa controlled completely.

Rogers seemed very aware of this—and very aware, too, that he could do nothing to stop it. He politely refused to drink alcohol, clinging to a lone cup of coffee, and spoke very little. He was pale now, despite the heat, and his shoulders were locked in a resolute line. He obviously knew he could expect no help from Ross; as a matter of fact, he wasn’t even trying to get his attention. Only bracing himself for what happened after he was left alone.

After all parties had bid each other good night, Shuri had Rogers’ door lock itself, and all signals to his electronic devices were jammed. An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out. Rogers didn’t attempt to leave his room, and didn’t even turn on his phone.

In the morning, Ross left without saying goodbye—W’Kabi assured him he already had the night before, and the man’s hangover made him willing to believe anything that would let him leave faster. A few hours later, his plane was wheels up and past the border. T’Challa breathed out. It was done. In what seemed like no time at all, he’d found himself with an American prisoner at his complete mercy.

Also known as the US ambassador.

 

“This is a disaster.”

“I told you,” Shuri answered, twirling on her chair. “You should have worn the mask, too. Undetectable! So light it feels like nothing! But _no, Shuri,_ you said, _the gloves are more than enough, Shuri,_ you said—”

“I know what I said,” he mumbled, rubbing his temples.

“Aw, brother, do you have a headache? Here.”

He drank what she’d given him, without even checking what it was, and winced with a sudden sensation of cold replaced his throbbing migraine. Now he couldn’t even blame his distress on pain; he had to sit down and think rationally about what to do. Part of him would have preferred to keep the headache.

“All right,” he said with a bracing exhale, putting both hands flat on Shuri’s desk. “Damage control. I need to settle on a course of action.”

“We could just… let him think he’s dreamed it,” Shuri suggested.

“No. He’s not a fool.” That much T’Challa knew, which only added to the panic he was trying to keep under control. “I made sure he couldn’t report to Ross, and he definitely noticed. It was a clear hint that he did uncover something real.”

Shuri pulled up a visual of Rogers in his room. He hadn’t dressed up that morning, not in his uniform, and not even in a civilian suit. He was wearing a sky-blue hoodie, grey sweatpants and no shoes. Sitting on the window ledge with one bare foot up and his hands pushed into his front pocket, he was looking outside at the great canopy. It was such a quiet, unassuming tableau T’Challa was confused for a moment.

“He thinks we’re going to kill him,” Shuri said quietly.

“Shuri—now is not the time to speak nonsense.”

“I’m not making a joke. Look at him. He was so preoccupied with appearances yesterday—and today?” She glanced at T’Challa. “ _Look_ at him! He doesn’t think any of that matters anymore.”

They both stared at the small form of Rogers onscreen for a moment.

“This is a man enjoying his last meal,” Shuri said. “Metaphorically speaking. The comfy sweater being the metaphor for the meal—”

T’Challa pushed away from the desk. “Glory to Bast. I am going to talk to him.”

“To say what?”

“I suppose I will find out.”

 

He walked down the hallways at a brisk pace, then stopped in front of Rogers’ door. His hands were shaking; he clenched them into fists, then exhaled, and loosened them. After which he knocked.

A polite invitation to come in answered him. T’Challa walked in slowly, half-expecting a desperate attack. But Shuri’s voice through the kimoyo beads would have warned him, had it been the case; and indeed Rogers was still on the window ledge, looking much younger than the day before. _How old is he?_ T’Challa asked himself suddenly. He knew this—yes, thirty-four. Only two years younger than him.

Rogers looked up, and his blue eyes froze T’Challa in his tracks for a moment. Even at a distance, they were very striking.

“Your Majesty.” He unfolded himself to a standing position. “Sorry, I’m not dressed up.”

“I think you can call me T’Challa, given the circumstances.” T’Challa took a fortifying breath. “Please, sit.”

Rogers wordlessly crossed the room to sit at the cedar table. T’Challa sat in front of him. He noticed that Rogers’ hands were staying at a careful distance from his; and he felt Rogers’ eyes flick to his own hands, flat on the tabletop.

“You’re not wearing gloves,” Rogers said slowly. “Are you?”

“Is that important?

He received a faint smile in return. “I’m guessing what I saw yesterday was accidental. Triggered by touch. Am I wrong?”

His directness—his calm—didn’t sit right with T’Challa. “You seem to be reasoning very lucidly about it, Captain.”

“Please, call me Steve. Seems only fair. And…” He shrugged, staring at his own hands. “I’ll be honest—I don’t know anything about Wakanda. Everything I’ve heard—the vibranium, the tech, the staying hidden for hundreds of years—just sounds like plain magic to me. So, I don’t know, I guess… I guess I came in _expecting_ a surprise.” The corner of his mouth twisted up. “Maybe not on that scale.”

“You are very blunt,” T’Challa noted. “If you’re not interested in Wakanda, why accept the position?”

Rogers’ blue eyes flicked up at him. “I never said I wasn’t _interested.”_

This was not helping T’Challa make a decision. “You didn’t try telling Ross about what you’d seen.”

Rogers snorted inelegantly, which startled T’Challa again—he seemed like a completely different man than the day before. _“Telling Ross?_ That guy’s a stuck-up military official who thinks the only solution to foreign issues is blowing them up.”

“And that’s not what you are?”

“I figured you’d expect that of me,” Rogers answered with a half-smile. Then he looked down. “I… I was hoping to prove you wrong.”

“You can stop using the past tense,” T’Challa said despite himself.

“Can I?” Rogers looked back up. He didn’t seem defiant—just honestly surprised. “I kind of assumed that was it for me.”

He was either genuine, or a mind-blowing actor. Either way, he expected to be removed, and he wasn’t even trying to plead his own case. He obviously thought whatever happened to him would be _fair._ T’Challa couldn’t stand it. To see this man, sitting straight at the table in his soft unassuming clothes, calmly waiting to be hurt—to be killed...

“No harm will come to you,” T’Challa said. “This, I promise.”

Rogers’ expression didn’t change. He was too clever to believe he’d just be allowed to walk away.

“But you must understand how deep a secret you’ve uncovered,” T’Challa went on slowly.

Rogers cleared his throat. “What I saw, it’s… it’s not _science,_ is it?”

T’Challa oddly wanted to smile. “No.”

The unspoken implication was that something existed _beyond_ the scope of science; Rogers visibly turned that information over in his mind before deciding to put it aside for now.

“Then—something like—a curse?”

“A blessing,” T’Challa corrected quietly. “This is what designates the champion of the royal family. The touch of an outsider will turn me. It’s said that Bast originally gave us this ability to defend ourselves, during the tribal wars.”

This must not make any sense to Rogers’ Western mind, though he still nodded. “But—” he hesitated. “Then how do you—”

“I am not here to tell you more,” T’Challa interrupted. “The details belong to us. I am here to discuss what’s to be done with you.”

Rogers went stiff again, but T’Challa had had enough time to think. The solution was risky, but doable.

“We cannot risk this information getting out, as I’m sure you understand. But luckily for the both of us, you came here to stay. Maybe we can find a suitable arrangement.” He lifted his kimoyo bracelet to his mouth. _“ <Shuri? Bring me a set of black beads.>”_

Lowering his wrist, he realized that Rogers must speak Xhosa—or understand it at the very least, because he looked troubled. T’Challa felt his migraine begin to come back. Thankfully, Shuri appeared not a minute afterwards.

“Got them,” she called out. “Hi there, Mr. Ambassador. Sit back down, I’m not the Queen Mother.”

“This is my little sister Shuri,” T’Challa said. “Head of Royal Research and Development.”

“Oh,” Rogers said, obviously getting rid of a preconceived image in his head. “Are you—can you also turn—”

“Nope. There’s only one.” She slid the black beads over to him. “Here. I was going to give you a normal bracelet, but circumstances are what they are and, well. Put it on.”

Rogers was staring at T’Challa, probably fascinated by the thought of him turning into a panther again; when he realized he’d been asked to do something, he hurried to obey, fumbling a little with the bracelet’s latch. It locked itself with a loud _click._ The beads looked odd against his pale wrist, solid black instead of the usual translucent mauve.

“This device will kill any communication system near you,” Shuri said. “That means phones, Internet, the whole shebang. Unless you’ve got a carrier pigeon in your pocket, I’ve covered all our bases. Nobody can remove it but me.”

There was a wrinkle between Rogers’ eyebrows. He recognized the device for the restraint it was. “All right,” he said slowly. “But… I was supposed to send back reports. Answer some emails. Do embassy work.”

“You will access a computer two hours a day—under surveillance,” T’Challa allowed. “Everything you send will be reviewed and censored.”

Rogers mulled it over for a while, stroking the black beads.

“That sounds reasonable,” he said eventually.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way, Captain. The situation...”

“No—it’s fine.” He looked up. How _blue_ those eyes were. “I understand it’s the best you can do, considering the circumstances.”

“We will get to know each other,” T’Challa said. “Then I can make an informed decision regarding whether or not you can be trusted.”

 _What if you decide I can’t be,_ Rogers obviously wanted to ask. But he didn’t; just nodded again.

 

*

 

After they’d left, Steve flopped down on his very comfortable bed and stared at the ceiling.

Then he put his face in his hands and laughed helplessly for a few minutes, because he goddamn might as well. After he’d calmed down, he exhaled and lifted up his wrist to look at the black beads. They seemed to be absorbing the light.

“Can you believe that, Buck?” he said out loud. “Seems you really were the glue holding this world together.”

He wanted to laugh some more, which surprised him. He hadn’t had so many emotions bubbling inside him in a long time; it was like part of him was thawing after a long winter.

When Ross had offered him the position of ambassador in Wakanda, Steve had said yes without hesitation. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, hadn’t examined the changes it might provoke inside him. It just felt like duty. Studying his own motivations had come later, during the long months preparing his expatriation. _Expatriation:_ there was the key word, maybe. Steve was sick to death of being a patriot. He was sick to death of rotting in place, held together with spite and medals, working in VA centers where he only met more and more people whose eyes were as empty as his own. And when Ross had asked _him_ to take the job—an unqualified veteran, famous only for saving a few American lives at the expense of many foreign souls—Steve had realized exactly how little they cared for international diplomacy. His aimless, general anger at the system had focused to a sharp point. Wakanda was just another country to take over, wasn’t it? Wealth to pillage? They’d attempt it behind the scenes, not in plain sight, not this time. But it would be a takeover all the same.

So yes. As long as they were sending in a veteran, someone who’d be expected to throw his weight around—then why shouldn’t Steve go? He’d been so empty and pliant since his return that he could pass for an obedient grunt, and it wasn’t like he was doing anything worthwhile with his life. To feel empty at home, to feel empty in a foreign land, what was the difference? And it’d be fun seeing how long he could stall and deflect before his bosses realized he had no intention of doing their dirty work.

That had been the plan. Except Wakanda was turning out _way_ more foreign than expected, and Steve felt… _full._ Of emotions and curiosity and awe and _life._ It was like he’d traveled back in time to become again someone he’d used to be. Or maybe—more simply—he’d finally begun to move forward.

He found himself suddenly yearning for the outside. He was in another land—a mysterious, advanced, straight-up magical land. His communications might be censored, but he wasn’t on house arrest.

“Am I?” he asked the bracelet out loud.

Nothing answered him. Maybe they _weren’t_ using that thing to straight-up record him—a good thing, or they’d find out just how often he talked to himself.

“All right.” He crunched his abs to sit up all at once, feeling excited like a kid at Christmas. “I’m out of here.”

 

Thirty-four was a very young age to be entrenched in dusty old politics, but it was perfect for discovering a new country. The palace sat on top of a hill in the heart of the city; Steve was quick to spot stairs zig-zagging down the gardens, all the way down to the streets of Birnin Zana.

Leaning onto a banister, he took a closer look at his kimoyo beads in the light of day. He knew those were supposed to act as a credit cards, among many other things, but Shuri had said his specific set was meant to kill communications. Was the black bracelet functional in other ways? He poked at it for a while, but no dice. Which meant he only had two thousand _basti_ to his name, in coins and bills. Something like two hundred bucks, if he remembered correctly.

“Okay then,” he muttered, and went down the stairs.

He realized he was still barefoot just before he reached street level—the pale sun-kissed stone had been so pleasant under his feet he hadn’t thought about it at all. But a quick glance down the hill told him he wasn’t alone: from up here, he could see that a great many people went along barefoot, despite being otherwise clothed in a highly stylish mix of sportswear and sci-fi garments. The streets were beaten earth and maintained by what looked like outdoors Roombas, moving like they had a mind of their own inside of putting around. Steve stared at them in fascination for a good five minutes, watching as one of them zoomed to absorb a harmless dry leaf as soon as it touched the ground.

He was unnoticed yet; but the streets were wide enough that he could see some kind of market spreading in the distance. He hesitated for a moment, then went down the last flight of stairs and joined the crowd.

Steve was—glaringly—the only white guy around, something he knew would happen, but wasn’t prepared for. A pause rippled around him as he walked, like a wave of silence. Conversations broke in half. People turned to look at him. Kids pointed and laughed and were shushed by their parents. Steve went down the market alley, parting the crowd like a clumsy whale shark crossing a school of clever darting fish. Unease sat between his shoulder blades—maybe this hadn’t been a very good idea…

But after a minute, the market-goers slowly absorbed the impact of his presence. The country had been opened more than three months ago, after all. The Wakandans had had enough time to get used to the idea of people like him. _And_ he’d made a very public entrance just the day before, so they might even know exactly who he was. They still stared, but more discreetly now, and after a little while he started to breathe again.

The market, with its uneven ceiling of cloth—red and orange and purple and yellow, stalls overlapping with stalls—should have been hot and stuffy, but the air was cool. Almost chilly. Refrigerating an open place must devour an incredible amount of energy, but clean energy was something Wakanda did not lack. So why not use it? Steve was glad he was wearing a hoodie. His head was spinning, and it wasn’t because of the hot-and-cold.

Little by little, he found himself actually looking at the stalls. The fish stayed fresh, the meat didn’t rot, the produce was dewy and cool to the touch. So many fruits and vegetables he didn’t know. Besides the usual food, clothing items and trinkets, they also sold incredibly advanced pieces of tech. When Steve realized some stalls had kimoyo beads, he slowed down, then stopped.

The bead seller was a tall woman with intricate braids piled up in three separate buns on her head. She saw Steve looking at her merchandise and grinned. _“Molo,_ stranger. See something you like?”

Steve discreetly shook his sleeve to cover the black bracelet on his left wrist.

“I think so. But—I’m not sure how to use it. And I only have two thousand _basti.”_

She was more than happy to help out, taking great care in explaining the details—all the while watching him so closely he felt like he was being X-rayed. No doubt he’d turn into a hell of a story at dinner. As it turned out, he could acquire a “credit card” kimoyo bead that would allow him to access his bank account. Only three hundred _basti._ He did just that, then took the opportunity to buy a communication bead, a city map bead, a weather bead and a translator bead. Those were the essentials, but there were _tons_ of them—player beads that could immerse the user in any video game, radio beads connecting to the city waves, but also completely silly ones like dog-calling beads that emitted a certain sequence of ultrasounds or food-spotting beads that chimed when they detected the smell of the user’s favorite dish. Steve had a hard time not buying them all.

“Feels like Diagon Alley, Buck,” he muttered as he walked away, finding a quiet corner to study his purchase. His new bracelet was more sparsely decorated than his Wakandan house arrest cuff, but prettier, glowing purple instead of devouring light. Steve was trying to see if he could pull up the city map without making a fool of himself when one of the beads started blinking like crazy. He was pretty sure it was his communicator.

“Uh. Hello?” he said stupidly.

A tiny image of Shuri materialized from his bead, startling him.

 _“Captain Rogers!”_ she yelled. _“Where are you? My brother’s losing his mind!”_

Steve felt suddenly very dumb. Of course they’d freak out if he just vanished. Way to build up trust, Rogers.

“I’m at the market—just down the garden stairs,” he said. “I’m sorry, I… needed some air. I… I bought some kimoyo beads?”

_“I know! It was a rhetorical question, I tracked your bank account. How do you think I’m calling you now?”_

“Those things are really neat,” he could help saying.

 _“I know,”_ she repeated, _“I invented them, stupid!”_

“Hey, now. Don’t insult the US ambassador, or I’ll make sure you lose a _lot_ of time censoring my emails.”

Shuri blinked at him, then snorted a laugh, which made him crack up too. For an odd—but nice—moment, they just giggled on the line. Shuri’s image shook with Steve’s wrist.

 _“You’re taking this too well,”_ she said eventually. _“You should be freaking out more, you know?”_

“I just might be,” Steve answered honestly. “I didn’t really think about the consequences of coming down here. Maybe I didn’t care. Or maybe I just wanted to see how far the surveillance went.”

She shook her head. _“Stay where you are, all right? The inner city’s pretty safe, but you’re very visible. And some people weren’t happy that my brother opened the country.”_

“I’ll stay put,” he promised.

He was leaning against a wall, still fiddling with his map, when a long black silhouette approached him. Looking up, he was baffled to see T’Challa himself. Why hadn’t they sent a member of the royal guard—or, barring that, the Chief of Security?

T’Challa’s black robes stood out starkly against the joyful multicolored mess of the market. Yet he wasn’t sinister, looking instead sleek and elegant like—well. Like a panther. Steve realized this had to be intentional. The Black Panther did stand out from his people, and dressed accordingly. There was no one else like him in Wakanda. Probably no one else like him in the entire world.

“Captain,” he greeted him. He raised an eyebrow and looked down at Steve’s feet. “You are not wearing any shoes.”

“Didn’t think it was a problem,” Steve said, straightening up.

“Not at all. I’m just surprised.” T’Challa looked away. “Walk with me.”

 

*

 

T’Challa eyed Rogers as they walked. The man wasn’t apologetic for slipping out of the palace, and in fact seemed almost proud. They couldn’t physically restrain him; he was the US ambassador, though he absolutely didn’t look or act like it anymore. Why bother, after crossing the worst of lines on his very first day?

His bare feet kept drawing T’Challa’s eyes. People went barefoot all the time, but to see Steve Rogers—an American soldier, a man T’Challa had first met in dress uniform complete with neatly combed hair and polished medals—to see him with wild hair and no shoes, in soft clothes that matched his eyes, to see him thrilled like a child by his brand-new kimoyo beads, to see him looking at everything with wondering eyes…

It made him dangerously sympathetic.

“Next time you leave, warn me,” T’Challa said when they’d reached quieter streets.

“Sorry. I tried telling someone I was going out, but there was nobody around.” Rogers fiddled with his kimoyo beads. He had obviously no idea how to use them. “I can call you on that thing next time, if I ever figure out how to do it.”

“Allow me,” T’Challa sighed, holding out his hand for Rogers’ wrist.

Rogers froze. “But—”

“It is fine. I never go out without gloves. Or my sister’s patented invisible mask.” T’Challa bounced a finger off his cheek, sending a shimmer across his face.

Rogers went very still when T’Challa touched him, then relaxed when he felt the soft suede of his gloves—as if he’d been afraid of triggering the transformation despite T’Challa’s assurances. He watched carefully as T’Challa demonstrated the hand gestures that activated the kimoyo beads, but didn’t try it himself after T’Challa had let go of him.

“Do you never touch _anyone?”_ he asked.

“No.”

“Not even Shuri? Even your own family…”

“Bast works in mysterious ways.”

“Are there others like—” Rogers bit his tongue. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to ask about that.”

“As far as I know, Bast only blesses a single member of the royal family. It is rumored among our people, but not firmly known. Better to live as a legend.”

Rogers blinked at him, obviously unsure why he’d gotten an answer. His hair looked absurdly fluffy, next to how slick it had been only the day before. As a whole, he looked so much softer, so much more casual and unguarded than he had been on their very first meeting. In a way, this unformal appearance was an act of rebellion. Against Wakanda? The US? Both? T’Challa wasn’t sure.

“My turn to ask questions now,” he said, prompting Rogers to start walking alongside him again. Tapping at his kimoyo beads, he made a bubble of silence bloom around them, keeping their voices from reaching the outside world.

Rogers blinked and tilted his head to the side like a baby hearing music for the first time. “Ask me what?” he said after a last shake of his head. “I don’t turn into an eagle, if that’s what you mean.”

T’Challa snorted. “I wanted to know more about what led you to my country. Why Wakanda? You’re more familiar with the Middle East…”

Rogers twisted his lips. “I’m familiar with how to kill people in the Middle East. Not much else.”

“You disapprove of the army,” T’Challa noted with some surprise. “Was it a punishment, for you to be sent here?”

A laugh. “Could’ve been, if they’d seen my last action in the field for what it was. But they called it heroism instead—go figure.”

Contrary to Rogers, T’Challa had done his homework and looked up _Rogers, Steven G._ ahead of time. A captain of the US Army who’d risked his life to save sixteen POWs, been rewarded with the Medal of Honor, and immediately retired from service.

“What was it, really?” he asked, intrigued.

“Insubordination of the highest order,” Rogers answered lightly. “I’d been told to give up and run a different mission.”

“Give up on sixteen prisoners of war?”

“Give up on one.” Rogers was looking away. “I had no idea the others would be there. Nobody knew.”

“And…”

“Got them all out. Except the one guy I’d come to find, who died on the way back. Life’s funny that way.”

T’Challa didn’t know what to say, but Rogers spared him the effort, reaching out and moving his hand over T’Challa’s hand—taking care not to touch. The bubble of silence folded back into nothing. He _had_ watched how T’Challa did it.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said, his voice overly light again. “Like that building over there. What’s it for?”

 

“Brother,” Shuri saluted him. “Got the lost goat home?”

“Yes. He’s asleep now—the jet lag is still taking its toll.” T’Challa could feel himself frowning and knew Shuri would see it. “He is a… complicated man.”

“More complicated than we expected, huh? Of course, I’m not sure the opposite would’ve been possible.”

“I still don’t know why he’s come here. He confessed to knowing nothing about our country.” T’Challa thought back on Rogers’ hair, ruffled and free like bird feathers. “But I don’t think he was just blindly following orders.”

“He’s come for the riches and fame,” Shuri shrugged. “What else?”

“I don’t know,” T’Challa repeated. Obviously, the place of Wakandan ambassador would have been very coveted, but… “I don’t know.”

“Okoye wants him on house arrest.”

“I’ll talk to Okoye.”

“And Mother is fretting.”

“I’ll talk to Mother.”

“And you’re worried too,” Shuri put her chin in her hand. “Tell me, truly, brother. Are you scared?”

T’Challa spoke slowly, learning his own thoughts as he formulated them out loud.

“No. I wish he didn’t know, but I… do not believe he will disclose the secret.” He frowned at himself. _“That_ is what worries me. How inclined I am to trust him, even though I have learned very little.”

“Then we know how to fix that. My three favorite words.” She grinned. _“Learn even more.”_

 

*

 

Steve woke up calmer than he had hours before, but still tired and unsure why he’d woken up at all. It was dark outside. After a moment, he realized his communication bead was pulsing like a tiny heart, with a musical hum.

“Hello?” he rasped.

 _“Captain.”_ No visual this time, but T’Challa’s tenor was unmistakable. _“We are having dinner in the library, should you like to join us.”_

“Steve,” he said without thinking.

A beat. _“I’m sorry?”_

“I mean—I said—call me Steve, really. Please.” Then he frowned when he realized something that should have struck him at the market already. “I thought my black bracelet would kill communications?”

 _“Long-distance only. I’ve just downloaded a map onto your kimoyo beads, so you don’t get lost this time.”_ Was it sarcasm in his voice, or was Steve imagining things? _“We will see you in half an hour.”_

The line went dead. Steve blinked at his beads, then looked at himself and winced. He hadn’t showered in two days and was still coated in fine market dust. Throwing off his clothes, he jumped into the shower while wondering what the hell he was going to wear.

 

Clad in a blue shirt with an open collar and black pants, Steve decided after a long hesitation not to put on any shoes. He was supposed to adhere to the American dress code, and he’d packed an alarming number of suits and formal wear; but going for casual actually felt more respectful towards his hosts. He could only hope they’d see it as such.

He managed to activate his mapping bead without embarrassing himself, and laughed at the floating 3D map of the palace. Wakanda was like a video game in a lot of ways, which wasn’t surprising since a sixteen-year-old girl was in charge of their R&D.

“Library?” he asked tentatively, and a room lit up.

When he got there, he found not a dark stuffy place like he’d expected, but a great conservatory with fine ridges of metal. Part of him marveled at it, while another commented inwardly that daylight was damaging to books. But when he looked at the shelves, he saw they were made of dark glass that probably absorbed UVs.

T’Challa, Shuri, the Queen Mother Ramonda, Chief W’Kabi and General Okoye were sitting on comfortable poufs around a great mahogany table leaden with lots and lots of food. It smelled both delicious and alarmingly spicy.

“Good evening,” Steve said anxiously. “I… hope I’m not underdressed.”

“You look fine!” Shuri handwaved as the table greeted him. “Come eat.”

They were all barefoot, which had Steve stupidly relieved. Maybe he could trust some of his instincts. He crossed the room to sit between the Queen Mother and T’Challa, feeling a little awkward balancing atop the pouf.

“Do you like chakalaka? Biltong?” Shuri asked.

“He doesn’t know what it is,” T’Challa said with a half-smile. It was a nice look on him—sly but not mocking, with a spark in his dark eyes.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Steve said, smiling back at him. “So… I guess I’ll try a little of everything.”

“Good choice, Mr. Ambassador,” W’Kabi placed. “Let’s see how well you fare against the spices.”

Okoye snorted, Ramonda frowned, and Steve had to laugh. “Oh, I’m Irish. Historically, we can’t tolerate anything spicier than a potato, so you’re in for a show.”

T’Challa grinned, which made Steve stupidly happy. He was so anxious for the king to accept him—in a way he wouldn’t have been, if he hadn’t discovered his strange and wonderful secret. Maybe it was guilt: Steve had breached T’Challa’s intimacy, so he wanted to breach himself to T’Challa in return, if T’Challa would let him.

Steve tasted some of each dish, went predictably red with the spices, and wiped his tears good-naturedly while Okoye, sitting in front of him, pinched her lips not to laugh. Shuri grinned widely, T’Challa sported the half-smile Steve already liked, and W’Kabi laughed outright. “Try this,” he said, and then, “try that!”, eagerly awaiting to see the effect it would have on him. Steve couldn’t have said when it stopped feeling like pleasantry and started to come across as malicious, but after a moment he realized he was trying to deflect W’Kabi’s attention away from him.

The Queen Mother, obviously noticing this as well, kindly offered Steve a glass of rose-flavored _lassi._ He took it with gratitude—then let it fall with a startle when his hand brushed T’Challa’s.

“Shit!” The glass broke; white milk splashed the dishes and dripped on the carpet. “I’m so sorry— ” Steve froze. “You… you’re not turning.”

Ramonda was looking at him with wide eyes.

“Captain,” T’Challa said quietly. “I am still wearing gloves.”

Steve swallowed. “Oh. Right.” They felt like nothing; he could have sworn he’d been touching bare skin.

“Hold on just a minute,” W’Kabi said. He wasn’t laughing at all anymore. “Turning? Gloves? This man _knows?”_

“He found out on his first day here.” T’Challa sighed. “I meant to tell you at dessert, my friend. But don’t worry. The situation’s been handled.”

 _“Handled?_ T’Challa! How can you look me in the eye and say this? I told you— _I told you_ opening the country was a bad idea. I told you those people would bring nothing but problems! You said I was a fool to worry! And look what happened now!”

“Captain Rogers can be trusted,” T’Challa said coldly.

He was clearly overstating his trust in Steve simply because he didn’t like W’Kabi’s tone. The Chief of Security wasn’t fooled.

“He is American! He works for the military! He has been here three days, and already you have been careless enough to—”

“I don’t work for the military,” Steve cut him off.

Okoye looked at him. She was more reserved than her husband, and she didn’t look like Steve’s knowledge of the secret was news to her, so he tried addressing her in hopes she would actually listen.

“I came here to maintain good relations between the US and Wakanda,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, that means avoiding a war. And I’m well aware that if either of our countries try to induce one, it won’t be Wakanda. Especially with what I’ve learned.”

“Words,” W’Kabi scoffed.

T’Challa was folding his napkin with precise gestures. “Captain Rogers, I’ll take you back to your room.”

Steve stared hard at W’Kabi, whose nostrils were flaring. “Yeah, it might be a good idea.”

He got up and dabbed stains of _lassi_ off his nice blue shirt.

“Sorry again. Queen Mother, General. Princess Shuri.” To W’Kabi he gave a nod, then walked out after T’Challa.

 

“This is a mess,” Steve said once they were in the hallway. “I don’t know how to apologize.”

“None of what happened was your fault,” T’Challa sighed. “W’Kabi is sanguine, but he means well.”

They walked in silence for a while.

“The Queen Mother,” Steve said slowly. “Even she can’t touch you. Can’t _hug_ you.”

T’Challa looked so surprised by this comment that Steve did his best to backpedal.

“This is none of my business, obviously. I just… I was thinking of you as a kid.”

“We made it work,” T’Challa answered neutrally.

“Still. How do you…” A thousand questions were coming to Steve’s mind again, most of them uncomfortably related to birth and sex. He opted for another one. “Is that why you don’t have any servants here?”

“We don’t have servants because monarchs should not lose sight of day-to-day life,” T’Challa said. “Of course, the secret was the primary reason, but it’s made us better at keeping in touch with the realities of our people. None of us would have it any other way, even though I am the only shifter among them.”

Steve wanted to react to this, but he was still thinking of little T’Challa without his father, and a mother that couldn’t hug him. T’Challa watched him warily—like the panther had, with its golden eyes.

“You were beautiful, you know,” Steve said without thinking.

T’Challa stared. Steve wanted to slap himself.

“I… I mean…” He lost the battle not to blush. “I’d just never seen a panther before. Certainly not that close.”

T’Challa laughed—it was a surprising sound, clear and loud, that made Steve feel like the atmosphere had gotten from cold to warm.

“I do trust you,” T’Challa said when he was done laughing. “I wish I knew why.”

“I…”

“So I’ll try and find out,” he added unexpectedly. “Do you drink?”

“Not often,” Steve answered, wary.

“Excellent.” His eyes were sparkling with amusement again. “Then we will only need one bottle.”

 

Steve was great at _appearing_ sober, which had earned him the respect of many a soldier; but he hadn’t really gotten drunk since he’d left the Army, too afraid of the slippery slope, and the sweet wine T’Challa had poured packed a surprising punch. Steve only figured it out too late, when he lost track of what he was saying mid-sentence; but he decided to be game and filled up his glass again.

“Slow down,” T’Challa said with that secret laughter etched on his face.

“No, it’s fine. You wanted to get me drunk so I’m—I’m helping.”

T’Challa’s starry-night eyes held his for a long minute. Steve bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t start waxing poetry out loud. This was—a problem, he suddenly realized. Or it could become one.

The thought threw him for a loop. He’d always told himself he couldn’t ever feel something approaching that again. Who could ever hold a candle to Buck? And—and this was just him making a new friend for the first time in years, anyway. This was just T’Challa’s aura of mystery and secrecy and kindness making it all more intense. It would be completely ridiculous to complicate things with the _Wakandan King_.

Steve felt his chest tighten. Why was he finding so many pieces of himself in a country that couldn’t have been more foreign to him?

“Why are you helping me get you drunk, Captain?” T’Challa said in a slow, grave tone that sent chills down Steve’s spine.

Steve shook his head hard. “I want you… to trust me, too,” he said, with an effort not to slur his speech. “I’m sorry for what I saw. I wish I could undo it. I wish I could give you a secret in return. But I don’t have any.”

“Tell me why you’ve come here,” T’Challa suggested. “Why you took the job.”

“No.” Steve’s hair fell over his eyes when he shook his head again. “No, it’s not…”

Inside the translucent bottle, the clear white wine gleamed like the blood of a star. Why was everything so beautiful, Steve wondered. Why did he feel so sad and yet so good. Was it just being drunk? Or was it finding out that there was such a thing as magic, when he’d stopped being enchanted with the world for so long? Maybe that was it. Feeling enchanted again. By Wakanda in general, and T’Challa in particular, his carefully cropped hair, his smiling eyes, his smooth dark skin. Steve was fascinated by him. It was stupid and if he hadn’t been so drunk, the softness he felt in his heart would have alarmed him a lot more. For a lot of reasonable, boring political reasons. And the simple fact that he couldn’t touch T’Challa.

Nobody could touch him. Steve kept circling back to that. How could anyone be expected to live like this?

T’Challa moved to sit very close to Steve, then emptied his own glass in three long swallows. “There,” he said, setting it back down. “That way we will both be drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Steve said out of sheer habit—even though he really, really was. “And you didn’t have to… I’ll tell you what you need to know. Anytime you want.”

“You _just_ refused to say.”

“S’not the same,” Steve said mulishly, slipping. “I already told you why I’m here. At dinner. To make sure we…”

He shut up. T’Challa kept looking at him like he could read the answer on his face.

“To protect us?” he asked in a soft voice.

“Don’t say it like that. It sounds horrible. Patronizing.” Steve rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s just. General Ross, all the others… You know, I’ve—I’ve been overseas. I know what we do. I was their soldier. A soldier is… someone who fights even though every fight teaches him there’s no good reason for war. Except—maybe—defense. But I’ve never defended anyone, no matter what we said, and I thought maybe I could… I wanted to do it here. Be a… be a shield.”

T’Challa was silent. He was so close Steve could feel his breath curling on his cheek, and it made him want to vibrate out of his skin.

“Don’t sit so close,” he murmured.

“Why not?”

“I might touch you. You’re not… your face…”

“That’s fine.” T’Challa sounded steady, but his gaze lingered with some kind of sleepy warmth. He really was drunk, too, though he hid it even better than Steve. “Even if you do touch me, the shifting doesn’t hurt.”

“No?” Steve’s curiosity came ablaze. “Were you scared when it happened for the first time?”

T’Challa smiled—a great dazzling smile, sudden and bright like a comet. “I don’t remember the first time. My mother played with me whether I was child or kit. I was born with this blessing and I grew up with it.”

The idea of a tiny T’Challa transforming into a bumbling panther cub suddenly took over Steve’s brain and threatened to overwhelm him completely. “But,” he struggled to say, “but still—isn’t it…”

Without thinking, he reached out and put his hand over T’Challa’s forearm. T’Challa sat very still, allowing Steve’s touch. The warmth of his arm through the cloth—his eyes on Steve, steady, expectant—like touching a panther, like sitting close to one…

God. Steve was drunk.

“Isn’t it lonely,” Steve said, words spilling out on their own. “Nobody’s touched me in a long time. So I wonder—for you—isn’t it lonely?”

“What do you mean?” T’Challa asked, so softly it was barely audible. “Why wouldn’t anybody touch you?”

Steve tightened his fingers around T’Challa’s forearm, then let go. “I’m drunk,” he exhaled. “I’m drunk. I’m sorry.”

Later, he’d try to remember that evening and find that his memories stopped there.

 

Steve woke up to an incredibly vivid green. The color was so fascinating to him it took him a long moment to realize it was sunlight through leaves.

Gradually, he became aware of other things—the smell of wet soil, the quiet buzz of insects, the heavy heat of midday, and a root poking him in the back. He sat up, fingers sliding in wet gravel, and saw nothing around him but trees.

He got to his feet. His mouth was dry, but he wasn’t otherwise hungover—his miraculous metabolism apparently still worked. All the guys in the Army had been dead jealous of him for that. He was still barefoot, in his _lassi_ -stained blue shirt and dark pants. It was like someone had plucked him from T’Challa’s palace to deposit him here.

“What the hell,” he murmured, then looked down at his wrist on instinct.

Which was when he really understood something was very wrong.

His purple kimoyo beads were gone, and his left wrist was bruised and scratched as though someone had tried to tear off the black bracelet. Even though it looked like a piece of jewelry, it was a cuff and had acted like it. _Nobody but me can take it off,_ Shuri had promised.

Steve looked around. The jungle was so thick he had no way of knowing whether he’d been dropped into the middle of it, or half a mile away from town. Somehow the first option felt more likely.

A snapping branch startled him. He was _not_ used to jungles, and he’d never spent any significant amount of time in the wilderness. Plus he was barefoot. A dark shape slithered in the bushes, then a sleek black head poked out from under the leaves. Yellow, unblinking eyes focused on Steve.

He froze.

The panther took a step forward, then another. Steve’s instincts started hammering wildly at reason’s door, trying to break through. _This was not T'Challa._  And Steve—he had no experience with big cats, but he knew wild animals as a whole could be impressed by size, noise and confidence. Standing tall, he swallowed, then spread his arms and stood his ground.

“Get out of here!” he yelled. “Go on, get! I’m not prey!”

The panther froze, looking wary. Steve wanted to grab a rock to fling it in its general direction—not _at_ it; God forbid he actually hurt it and provoked an attack—but hesitated to crouch. He settled for making a throw movement without actually throwing anything.

The panther flinched, then snarled, a guttural sound he’d heard in movies—and which sounded _way_ more terrifying in real life. Its fangs looked starkly white, the inside of its mouth blood-red. Steve wanted to back away, but found himself frozen to the spot, unsure what would happen if he gave ground.

A rustling noise coming from behind made him turn his head. Oh God, was it _another_ cat? Weren’t they solitary animals?

Another snarl called his attention back to the panther, but before anything could happen, T’Challa burst out from the bushes behind Steve and grabbed his arm.

“Step back,” he gasped, breathless. “It’s a female with cubs. You won’t chase her away. Step back.”

“O-okay,” Steve breathed. “Okay. Stepping back.”

He took a step back, then another, feeling the ground with his bare feet.

“If she attacks, I’ll transform to hold her back,” T’Challa said. “Use that opportunity to get away.”

“And what, just leave you?” Steve protested.

T’Challa would have probably argued back, except that their slow retreat was successful; the panther seemed to have no intention of chasing them and stayed rooted to the spot, watching them fixedly. It took them five minutes to get far enough that they could turn their back to her and finish getting away. T’Challa moved through the jungle with a grace Steve tried to mimic—raising his feet high seemed to be key so he wouldn’t get tangled in vines and roots. They finally arrived to a fallen tree where they could sit and catch their breath.

“Did you think that was me?” T’Challa gasped after a minute.

Steve looked at him, and their heavy breathing hitched and turned into laughter.

“For a second,” Steve answered when they were done, still giggling with sheer nerves. “God, I didn’t know what to do! I tried to think of mountain lions. Not that I ever saw one.”

“You were doing well—it would’ve worked if she hadn’t been with kits.” T’Challa breathed out laughter too.

A bird sang out, startlingly close.

Steve glanced up, then back at T’Challa again. The king wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Steve,” he said—and that name in his mouth was like a punch to the gut. “Why are we here?”

Steve exhaled. “I was hoping you could tell me that.”

 

*

 

T’Challa knew his country inside and out, but the rainforest represented an important percentage of the territory, so he couldn’t tell with certainty exactly _where_ they were. The strong inclination of the ground pointed at the piedmont, which was very bad news—they couldn’t have been farther from Birnin Zana, or more deeply lost in the jungle.

But how did two people just _end up_ in the jungle?

“Do you still have your kimoyo beads?” he asked Steve. “They took mine.”

“Same here.” Steve rolled up his left sleeve, showing the black bracelet. “Couldn’t take this one off, not that it’s much use to us. I also have my phone—you could take it and walk away from me until it starts working…”

“It won’t have any coverage here,” T’Challa said. “Which is why they didn’t bother taking it from you.”

“Who’s _they?”_ Steve asked. Then, managing the word correctly enough: “Could it be the Nenkcaso?”

T’Challa gaped at him for a good five seconds. “How do you know about them?”

Steve blinked in return, like this might be a trick question. “I’m the US ambassador. I… I know about your regime’s opponents.”

“You said you didn’t know anything about my country.”

“I meant culturally. How kimoyo beads work, and what people eat and wear and listen to. There are no resources for that, short of actually living here.” He shrugged tightly. “But politically—yeah. I’m not clueless. I was going to try and do a good job.”

“Oh.” T’Challa had to reshape again his perception of Steve Rogers. “I’m sorry. I have been—less than fair to you, from the very start.”

“Well, I can’t really blame you.” Steve suddenly reached out for T’Challa’s face and stopped just short of touching him. “Do you know you’re bleeding?”

T’Challa touched his forehead and felt slick warmth. He did recall a branch whipping him in the face while he was running to Steve’s aid.

“Nobody knew you were in my room getting me drunk,” Steve said quietly, unfastening his cufflinks. “Except the people with us at dinner.”

T’Challa snorted. “None of them could be part of the Nenkcaso.”

“No? Then why didn’t we get hurt any worse? We’ve been dropped out of the way—not killed.” Steve ripped out the cuff of his right sleeve, folded it, and held it out to him. “Here.”

T’Challa wordlessly accepted the piece of cloth and pressed it to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said quietly.

“Why?”

“I… I don’t know.” He looked away. “I feel responsible for all this.”

T’Challa’s feet weren’t hurt—his soles were callused from a lifetime of walking around barefoot—but Steve’s were scratched and cut from their hasty retreat in the jungle. Somehow, that sight made T’Challa fully realize that Steve really was just who he’d seemed to be from the start. Someone who’d come in the tentative hope of doing some good, even after seeing so much evil in the world, and enduring so much pain.

“None of this is your fault.” T’Challa shifted on the fallen log, reaching out to press a hand over Steve’s knee. “And I must say—I could think of worse people with whom to be lost in the jungle.”

 

 

Steve gave T’Challa a half-smile. “I’m not much use to you.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.” T’Challa worked his jaw. “You can be logical where I cannot. If you think it was someone at dinner…”

“T’Challa, that’s just something I said—”                                             

“But it _is_ logical. And one thing is for certain: I am out of the way. I don’t know what’s happening in Birnin Zana, but I know this is a coup. We must go back.”

“They’re probably framing me. That’s why they took me, too.” Steve’s shoulders were tense. “So much for avoiding an international incident.”

T’Challa had been trying not to think about that. “We must go back,” he repeated. “But it will take us a week to reach the plains—much more, without proper equipment.”

He tried not to think about what a week in the jungle would mean for anyone _without proper equipment._ Steve, who was either unaware of it or also choosing to ignore it, nodded grimly.

“That’s not a problem. I was in the Army. I can do forced marches.”

“Barefoot?”

“Not a problem,” Steve repeated doggedly.

T’Challa felt himself smile. Steve perked up—like he always did whenever T’Challa gave him a friendly sign. He was so earnest, so concerned with being good, _doing good,_ that T’Challa had heard it even on the first day—when Steve had been so uncomfortable and tense, trying to deliver a speech in the constraints of a uniform he’d come to hate. At the time, T’Challa had been concerned with how idiotically pretty he was, fearing a mere PR stunt. Now he watched him. His blue eyes, his pink lips, his golden hair. His pale, sun-shy skin.

Beautiful—there was no other words for what he was.

“I am very lucky they made you ambassador,” T’Challa said. “Something I am starting to realize.”

He got up from the log.

“Come. We will die in this jungle, or we will leave it as brother-in-arms.”

Steve smiled at him. “Now there’s motivation.”

 

It quickly became obvious that the jungle was too great an obstacle, even with all the motivation in the world.

As they went down the piedmont, the canopy became so thick it occulted sunlight completely. Steve had more difficulty than ever to place his feet, and often cursed softly when he stepped on something that stung or cut him. T’Challa himself wasn’t managing that well—he was used to walking on beaten-earth roads or smooth stone. And their problems weren’t only at ground level: as they progressed, the bushes grew thicker and sharper with thorns. Branches stood in their way, vines tangled from trunk to trunk, half-fallen trees barred their progress, stumps made them stumble. The air was thick and hot, buzzing with insects hungry for their blood. Steve’s blue shirt was almost black with sweat.

T’Challa’s hand suddenly shot out before he even knew why and clamped hard on Steve’s bicep.

“Do not,” he breathed, _“move.”_

 Steve had frozen mid-motion. Under his foot was a small snake, green with thin white stripes, tongue tasting the air.

“Back,” T’Challa murmured, and Steve stepped back.

They retreated to an enormous tree whose roots offered them something of a respite. Steve was pale, and shaking—something T’Challa could feel because he was still clutching his arm hard. He let go, wincing at the thought of bruises.

“It was venomous,” Steve said.

“Very,” T’Challa answered, though it hadn’t been a question.

They said nothing for a few minutes.

“It’s just been five hours. And we’ve covered, what? Three miles? We need another plan.” Steve’s brow was furrowed. “Am I the one slowing you down? Would you do better on your own?”

“Not by much. And I wouldn’t leave you here,” T’Challa said.

“It’s your people at stake.”

“It’s your life.” T’Challa wanted to meet his eyes, but Steve wouldn’t let him. “And I have just told you. I would not go faster alone.”

“Is there nothing, no one closer?”

“Only the Jabari tribe, but they are on the other side of the mountain, and far up—just a little bit lower than Bashenga’s Fang.”

“Which is?”

“The mountaintop. There is a radio antenna there—it’s how we keep in touch with the outside world.”

Steve stared into space for a second, then blinked at T’Challa. “Can’t we use that?”

“How?”

“My phone. I know you said the signal wouldn’t go through, but if we got close enough, I could call…” He floundered for a second. “No, wait, I don’t know. Maybe it’s what I’m _expected_ to do. If I sound the alarm, Ross will have just the right excuse to come crashing in with armed forces and—”

“You don’t need to call anyone in particular,” T’Challa said, struck by a sudden idea. “Just call.”

“What?”

“Just _call._ The black beads will detect that you’re trying to reach the outside. They will block the communication and alert Shuri at once!”

Steve’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God.”

“Come,” T’Challa said, helping him up. “We need to get to the antenna itself. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.”

“Good. I’ll lead the way,” T’Challa said—and put a hand behind Steve’s head to press their foreheads together.

The world turned upside down.

Because he’d initiated the shift, T’Challa was quicker to get his bearings than last time. He blinked, once, twice—the panther saw colors differently, a colder world of greys and blues—and saw a thoroughly confused Steve, much taller than before, staring down at him, reaching up to touch his own forehead.

“Oh,” he said. His voice sounded different through T’Challa’s new ears, deep and rich like pine honey. “Right. Wow.”

T’Challa’s tail jerked. _Come on._ He couldn’t speak in this form; Shuri had made him try a few times, but the result had always been horrifying. Cats could mimic just enough human noises to sink straight to the bottom of the uncanny valley. Luckily, Rogers wasn’t dumb, and followed—though he did stare at T’Challa in such complete awe that he nearly tripped and fell over a root.

 

The climb back up the mountain was physically harder, but also easier—as they went up, the vegetation cleared, and fewer animals wandered close to the tree line. T’Challa spotted two more snakes, and made Steve take a wide berth around the panther-and-cubs’ territory. Whenever he felt his body start to tremble with the call of humanity, he pressed up against Steve’s legs to reset the transformation. The first time, Steve stumbled back in alarm and T’Challa had to bump up his head to clip the bare skin of his hand; but then Steve caught on to what he was doing and helped, brushing T’Challa’s back whenever he rubbed against his legs again.

Half-way up, Steve found a branch to help him walk. Still, by the time they got out of the forest, his feet were bleeding in earnest and he looked exhausted. T’Challa himself could maintain the transformation no longer, despite Steve’s regular touch, and turned back with a gasp.

“Christ,” Steve said, sitting down on a rock. “That’s… _Christ.”_

“Hardest part is done,” T’Challa said, sitting down next to him.

Steve smiled like he knew he was lying, but also like he was grateful that he’d tried. “We’re moving faster than before. The panther really helped.”

“Yes. It’s what the panther does.”

“Couldn’t you have—turned—and run straight to Birnin Zana?”

“Not without you. I cannot turn without touch.” T’Challa smiled at him. “I think I beat my personal record today.”

“Record?” Steve said, then, _“Oh._ You’d never been a panther that long?”

“Maybe as a child, when I was too young to tell the difference. But in my adult life, no.”

They sat side by side on the rock, looking at the canopy below. The trees moved under the wind like a great emerald sea.

T’Challa felt—strange. Emotional. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because the situation was so dire and yet the world so beautiful. Maybe because he was dazed with exhaustion. Maybe because of Steve, who wasn’t afraid, wasn’t speaking of sorcery or black magic or murderous Aniota. Steve who loved the panther and looked at it with respectful awe; but also asked T’Challa if he didn’t miss human touch.

A buried part of T’Challa, very deep down, would have liked to cry out _yes, yes, I’m dying, I can’t breathe, I dream of it at night, I’d give everything to feel someone’s hand on my cheek, someone’s arms around me, someone’s lips on my lips._ Among those who were in the know, it was generally accepted that T’Challa was happy with Bast’s blessing. He _did_ appreciate it for the honor it was, did marvel every time at the magic wrapping around him, turning him inside out. But Steve didn’t know anything about tradition, so he’d asked the candid question—and awakened again the ache T’Challa strove to bury.

He took a deep breath. The mountain air tasted crisper already, a few dozen feet up from the tree line.

“Can you keep going?” he asked.

“Why? You getting tired?” Steve’s wince belied his words when he got up, but then a half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if to erase it. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

They were really not. But T’Challa smiled back, and reached out for touch again.

 

*

 

The climb up was slower and slower. Now that they were out of the jungle, Steve could see where he walked and took care to step only on flat rocks or beaten earth, steering clear of gravel and treacherous weeds. Still, his feet were a mess, and they were high enough that he was losing his breath in the rarefied oxygen.

But whenever his resolution faltered, he looked at the panther next to him and felt motivation return like air in his lungs. He couldn’t get enough of seeing this wild animal quietly falling into step with him, forging on with a grim determination. There was no illusion of it being a pet or a beast; even cat-shaped, T’Challa obviously retained all of his human lucidity and behaved accordingly, without any hints of animal behavior. It was uncanny, to see a panther so evidently steered by a man’s intelligence, and Steve had to remind himself to look away whenever he found himself staring too long.

T’Challa came to rub and press at his legs again, asking for touch. He did it irregularly, which Steve found strange until he realized T’Challa’s transformation time was proportionate with how long and how roughly he was touched. It made sense, if this was a warrior blessing. The next time T’Challa wandered closer, Steve sank his fingers in the fur of his neck, holding on, digging in his nails. For a split second, he was afraid he’d crossed a line; but then T’Challa growled his approval and arched up into Steve’s touch. His muscles rolled and tensed under the fur. It was like his human shape was trapped inside, like he could have burst free at any moment.

 

Snow started to appear an hour later, a few patches in the shade, and then long stretches of it between dark trees and grey rocks. T’Challa looked spectacular against this background, sleeker and blacker than ever, like a panther-shaped hole in the world’s cloth. The cat took a few steps into a lake of snow, holding its tail high; then twitched it in what looked like irritation, and meandered around for a while until it turned back into a man.

“Your _feet,”_ T’Challa said, coming close to Steve.

“I’ll be fine,” Steve lied.

“If we don’t wrap them up, you’ll lose a toe.” T’Challa promptly tugged his tunic over his head.

Steve saw black silk sliding off wiry bronze muscle and quickly looked away. “Don’t—you don’t have to—”

“It’s all the same to me. My clothing goes away when the panther’s around.” T’Challa tore a strip out of his beautiful ceremonial tunic. “Sit down on that rock.”

Steve obeyed, then flinched when T’Challa ripped another long strip of cloth. This time, T’Challa noticed and paused.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Steve said, determinedly looking away.

His cheeks were red, but he could blame it on the cold. See if he wouldn’t.

“I hope I’m not—” T’Challa hesitated. “Is this a matter of modesty?”

“No.” Well—T’Challa _was_ stark naked under his tunic, and Steve _was_ trying very hard not to look at him, but he wouldn’t have called it modesty, exactly. He cleared his throat. “Just—that tunic’s beautiful. You shouldn’t ruin it.”

T’Challa said nothing for a while. Then tore off a third strip. “It is just a thing. Your health matters more. Your life matters more.”

Steve said nothing and kept looking away.

“Do you not believe that?” T’Challa said quietly, all the while ripping his clothing to shreds. “That your life matters more than my tunic?”

Steve wordlessly took the strips of silk handed to him and wrapped them around his feet. He knew how to do it; he’d wrapped up Bucky’s feet much the same way, so he could walk over burning sand. He felt a lump in his throat like he’d choked on a stone.

“No, of course, I suppose it does,” he said at last.

“You suppose.” T’Challa watched him wrap up his feet for a quiet while. “You were right, you know.”

Steve looked up, forgetting he shouldn’t have. “What?”

“Touch. You asked me if it was lonely. And—it is.” T’Challa sat next to Steve on the rock, wearing his nudity like a royal coat.

He still had Shuri’s invisible gloves, which allowed him to reach out and take Steve’s hand, very loosely, like he might shift anyway if he squeezed too hard. He looked at their fingers pensively.

“Nobody’s asked me that question in a very long time.”

Steve stayed silent for a minute or so. Their joined fingers—so close, and yet so far. He felt the painful need to put his arms around T’Challa, to press his face at the crook of his shoulder, to hold tight and breathe him in, just for a moment. He wondered if T’Challa wanted the same thing, then realized he’d just admitted to it, somewhat.

“I’ve—been—lonely, too,” Steve managed, feeling like he’d damaged something getting the words out.

“So I gathered,” T’Challa answered softly.

And then Steve kept talking, even though he knew he should stop. “Is there no way for the blessing to end? There _has_ to be a way, because—I’m sorry, I keep thinking—if your father had it, how could he conceive you? And conceive Shuri, for that matter? I’m sorry—it’s so personal—I just keep _thinking—”_

“It’s all right.” The secret laughter was back in T’Challa’s dark eyes, though its spark was tarnished with exhaustion and worry. “Science allows one to conceive children without ever touching their partner in crime, I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Oh.” Steve felt stupid. “Right.” He hadn’t thought the answer might be so prosaic.

But T’Challa kept going. “However, my father didn’t need it. He fell in love. Bast lifts her blessing to allow a desired touch.”

“And... you never…”

T’Challa shrugged his beautiful shoulders. Steve tried not to look, but—he was _beautiful._ Everything about him was beautiful, lean and sculpted like mahogany, resplendent in the bright light of the snowfield.

“Not quite to that extent.”

Steve cleared his throat. “But when you do—”

“The blessing will go to Shuri, in all likelihood. And if _she_ falls for someone before either of us have children, then there will be no Black Panther until an heir steps up. Such vacancy has happened before. The kingdom would manage.” Worry put a stranglehold on T’Challa’s voice. “It always has.”

“I’m good to go,” Steve suddenly decided.

T’Challa looked at him. “Are you sure?”

“I can walk. Let’s go, come on. We can reach that antenna before nightfall.”

 

As they kept climbing, the trees grew smaller than vanished entirely, leaving only rock and snow—and then only snow. It was a long and grueling climb. Thankfully, there were paths crisscrossing the mountainside; Steve wondered what animal could have possibly climbed up this high until he caught sight of an angora goat in the distance. Those trails probably saved their life, allowing them to avoid unclimbable cliffs or sudden drops into the abyss.

The expensive silk tunic was a good protection for Steve’s feet, keeping them warm enough and mostly dry; he was cold, but the setting sun was warming up his back, and the effort kept his limbs loose. T’Challa had shifted again to keep climbing—he had to, really, now that his human form was naked. At first, the panther’s black fur, dappled with snow, looked like a night sky; then it reminded Steve more of a powdered donut. The cat used its body weight to breach the snowbanks, progressing in explosive leaps and bounds, until they both realized it was easier for Steve to go first and cut a path through the three feet of snow. After all, he _was_ taller. Doing this for T’Challa was a relief, making him feel a little less useless.

Before long, he went into a fugue state, letting his body pace itself, thinking of nothing. The pain, the cold and the lack of oxygen blurred the edges of his vision. He sometimes felt the panther’s head bumping his hand and didn’t know anymore if it was for an utilitarian touch, or for comfort, for encouragement. He held on to the folds of fur for a little longer every time, until the moment came when he just—didn’t let go. The panther weighed against his side, as if to hold him up, and his exhaustion-addled mind sometimes believed it wasn’t a cat but a man, T’Challa in the corner of his eye, both of them leaning on each other, trudging through the snow.

The world was suddenly set ablaze before Steve’s eyes, beautiful shades of gold and orange, and it took him a moment to understand that the sunset had just hit the mountain. A last hurrah before nightfall. He turned to look at the horizon, squinting, and was struck breathless by the stupendous beauty of the landscape they’d left behind: the canopy so far below, half-hidden in silver fog, the ridges of rock, and the smooth field of snow splashed in glorious light.

“We won’t make it before dark,” he said quietly.

He thought of lowered temperatures and how they shouldn’t have climbed all the way up here, how T’Challa was going to die, leaving his country open to turmoil and war—but he would have died in the jungle, too. Tangled in inextricable vines, succumbing to a snake’s venom, starving.

T’Challa had walked away from him to sit quietly in the snow, looking at the horizon too. A minute later, he was a man.

“If we manage to send a distress signal,” he said, breath pluming in the air, “Shuri will know we were here. It won’t have been for nothing.”

Steve looked at the antenna, still so much farther up. Then he blinked, struck by a sudden thought.

“Wait.” He got out his phone. “Wait. God, I’m so stupid—we don’t need to be _at_ the antenna! Now that we’re past the last ridge…”

“No—its signal was designed for stealth, your device can’t pick it up. I was hoping to hook it into the frame itself,” T’Challa said.

Steve thumbed his phone awake. He had no bars and no network. He waited, waited, but nothing came. Of course nothing came…

But then he saw it: the _emergency call_ button at the bottom of his screen.

Thinking back on this moment, Steve would realize this was when he really started to fall in love with T’Challa. Not because of his magic, his solitude, or his kindness; not because of his dark sparkling eyes, his secret laughter, his soft voice; not because of his broad shoulders, his perfect chest, his scuplted back. But because even though Wakanda had been hidden for centuries, even though the Bashenga’s Fang antenna had been erected to spy on the outside, it still allowed a foreign signal to be picked up for distress calls.

This was T’Challa’s politics summed up in one perfect gesture. Self-defeating, derisory, idealistic—all Ross’ words—but motivated by such a wealth of generosity. _What if someone needs help?_ This was why he’d opened the country. This was why he’d climbed up the Fang knowing he might die. This was why he wouldn’t give up, even though his own people might have already turned against him, for all he knew. This was why he accepted Bast’s gift as a blessing, without complaint.

_What if someone needs help?_

“I can call,” Steve said hoarsely. “I can—I can make an emergency call.”

“Glory to Bast.” T’Challa’s voice was a faint rasp. “That’s right. I had told Shuri to allow…”

Throat tight, Steve pressed the button. The call rang true, long beeps that were like a cry of life.

On his wrist, the black beads started to blink and hum.

 

*

 

They had to wait, minute after minute in the snow, subzero temperatures dropping in a freefall now that the sun had gone under. Steve had agreed they should both go back down if no one came for half an hour, but feeling him shake, hearing his teeth chatter, T’Challa wished they’d already begun the descent. It was all he could do to press his bulk against Steve, let him turn his face into the fur of his neck, warm him up in any way he could. The panther itself was cold, paws not made for snow, light fur more suited to dark and damp jungle.

When the aircraft rose above the mountainside, silent and mirroring the night sky on its hull, T’Challa felt Steve’s grip tighten on his neck. His own muscles corded in anticipation. If Shuri had also been captured, taken away, if this was an enemy responding to the signal…

But the hull opened and T’Challa knew her at once, smelling vibranium and cotton candy perfume. He relaxed so suddenly he almost fainted. Steve, feeling him release his tension, slumped against him, shaking unrestrainedly now.

Shuri dropped from the hovering aircraft feet-first into the snow, along with Okoye, spear high and eyes fierce. They both froze almost comically when they saw Steve huddled around the panther. T’Challa licked his frost-cold hands with a very red tongue to show them this wasn’t a poor attempt at a headlock.

“Bast,” Okoye swore, and hurried forward. “Shuri, come help!”

Supporting Steve, they brought him inside the aircraft while T’Challa wound worried circles around them. The second Steve was lain inside the emergency bunk, he let his hand drop so T’Challa could press his nose into it.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Steve asked, so weakly it took panther ears to understand him.

T’Challa licked his hand again. Steve smiled; then his eyes closed and his head lolled to the side.

Shuri wordlessly came close to replace his chilblained hand inside the bunk and shut the healing cocoon around him. Moving away from her, the panther sniffed around for a blanket to cover itself. Seeing T’Challa tug at her coat, Okoye came to help and draped it over him—just in time, too. A minute later, he was human again.

“Brother!” Shuri knelt by his side, wringing her hands in her efforts not to throw her arms around him. “Are you okay? What were you doing up there?”

“Is this man responsible?” Okoye asked in a low voice, eyes darting towards Steve.

“No. No, he’s done everything he could to help me.” T’Challa looked at Shuri. “Will he be all right?”

The diagnostic light on the side of the bunk blinked on just as he finished asking. Green. He nodded, and suddenly felt the weight of his own exhaustion.

“I cannot explain what happened. We drank together the night before and woke up in the jungle—on the piedmont.”

“The piedmont? You climbed the Fang all the way from the piedmont?”

“We’d lost our kimoyo beads, but he still had his black cuff and his phone. Bashenga’s Fang was our only chance.”

“We thought he’d taken you,” Okoye said. She exchanged a look with Shuri. “We thought the US had colluded with the Nenkcaso to get you out of the way.”

T’Challa nodded again, wearily. It was a believable explanation, and it would have been a good strategy—to have them both inexplicably removed, the US insisting they didn’t know where their ambassador had gone, protesting and demanding answers from T’Challa’s government; the Nenkcaso easily overthrowing their weakened opposition, seizing power, closing the country again. Paying the US their due in vibranium, after the dust had settled. Yes. Who wouldn’t imagine this to be the truth? Especially since they’d all commented on Steve Rogers being a man of action rather than politics—a mercenary, sent to kill T’Challa with no trace of a body and vanish afterwards.

Well-constructed, easily deductible. The jungle would have eaten the both of them before anyone thought of looking for a different truth; and even then, finding their remains side by side would have only furthered the theory.

“If this was what we were supposed to believe,” Shuri said, “then why not just kill you?”

T’Challa looked at Okoye. She stared back at him, pressing her lips into a tight line. They both knew why. Even Steve had known why, back in the whispering jungle.

A heartless conspirator would have slain T’Challa indeed, but not someone who’d shared his childhood and games. Not someone who couldn’t bear to deliver the fatal blow himself, who’d rather leave him in the jungle so death would come from a neutral source.

“General Okoye,” T’Challa said slowly. “What is your husband doing at the moment?”

 

How odd, to come so close to catastrophe and then go back to normal in only twenty-four hours. W’Kabi was apprehended by Ayo before he even knew Shuri and Okoye had left the palace, much less retrieved T’Challa alive. Nothing had happened; nothing had time to happen.

To his king, W’Kabi would say nothing—what was there to be said? He disapproved of T’Challa’s politics on such an intrinsic level that he’d gone so far as to attempt murder. All was said already. To Okoye, however, W’Kabi talked and talked and talked, naming his allies in the Nenkcaso like they didn’t matter to him, swearing he hadn’t told her anything only because he hadn’t wanted her to be torn between love and duty.

 _“There was no need to worry about me,”_ Okoye told him, tinny through the speakers. _“I would have chosen duty without question.”_

Then she gestured to the camera and Shuri let her out of the cell.

T’Challa sat on her lab stool, watching the screen with tired eyes. “So it seems I’ll be wanting a new Chief of Security.”

“Brother.” Shuri’s voice was very soft. “You should get some rest.”

“I need to see Captain Rogers first. Is the healing done?”

“Yes—he suffered only from light chilblain and some superficial cuts and bruises. But he was exhausted. As you must be.” She poked him in the cheek with her gloved hand. “Go to sleep.”

“Captain Rogers,” T’Challa repeated obstinately. “Where is he?”

 

Walking all the way to Steve’s room felt like climbing Bashenga’s Fang all over again. But when T’Challa pushed the door open and found him lying on his bed, unharmed and asleep, something unfurled in his chest like a nymphea on water.

He hadn’t made any noise, but Steve seemed to sense his presence anyway; his blue eyes blinked open.

“T’Challa.” He rose up on one elbow, exhaustion still clinging to him. “What happened? Is everything all right?”

“We’ve arrested my Chief of Security, and his accomplices. All is well.” T’Challa had to push the words out of his throat. “Please accept Wakanda’s humblest apologies for this misadventure.”

 _“T’Challa,”_ Steve repeated, sounding pained. “There’s no need… God, please, just—don’t just stand there.”

T’Challa shouldn’t have—decorum forbid it—but he’d told Steve they’d either die in the jungle or leave it as brother-in-arms. And, well, they were not dead. His feet moved on their own, and his entire body seemed to cry out in gratitude when he sat down on the mattress.

“Are you all right?” Steve asked, still awkwardly propped up.

“I will be.” T’Challa closed his eyes. “Just… this is a blow. W’Kabi felt he couldn’t talk to me. For him to go to such lengths—I must have done something wrong. I must have wronged him in ways I don’t understand.” He rubbed his eyes with both palms. “Bast. I can’t think.”

“You really should lie down.”

His tone was so pleading that T’Challa gave up and just complied, curling so his feet wouldn’t risk brushing Steve’s shins. He felt his breath on his face, felt his weight on the mattress. He’d been too wired to rest, despite his exhaustion, ever since they’d been found on the mountain; but now, unexpectedly, his body was finally managing to let go. He felt dizzy with the rising tide of sleep.

It was good to be here, next to a man who didn’t know W’Kabi and didn’t understand the magnitude of his betrayal. Someone who hadn’t known T’Challa all his life, but still asked about his well-being, simply because he cared.

Steve slowly shifted down to rest on his side as well. T’Challa cracked his eyes open to look at him.

“You wanted to do some good, Captain. You wanted to defend us,” he said quietly. “And you did.”

“You defended _me._ I would’ve died a dozen times if not for you.” Steve smiled, pink mouth tugging up. “You know, all in all, this isn’t exactly how I imagined my first week would go.”

T’Challa started laughing under his breath, helplessly, and wished—an aching, longing wish—he could hold him. He settled for reaching out and resting his hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve’s fingers moved towards him, just a twitch across the blanket. “Are you wearing your gloves? Your mask?”

“Nothing.” T’Challa was falling asleep, and didn’t try to fight it. “Let’s just be careful. I will leave in a minute.”

“Okay,” Steve said, eyes closing. They both knew T’Challa wouldn’t be going anywhere. “Okay.”

 

*

 

Steve woke up with his nose buried in soft black fur.

Something told him this wasn’t ideal, but he had a hard time remembering why. He was so comfortable, and a spring breeze was coming in through the window, carrying a few notes strummed on an instrument he couldn’t place by ear.

The panther was a heavy weight against him, breathing soft and deep like the big cat it was. Steve was gripping the back of its neck the way he had during the climb. He couldn’t remember ever being so comfortable, with an extra touch of awe to it. Cuddling a panther—now _there_ was something worth living for.

Of course, this was when someone knocked on the door. Steve strained to look up without disturbing T’Challa.

“Who is it?” he said, trying to make his voice carry without speaking too loud.

“Shuri.” The door opened. “Have you seen my—”

The rest of her sentence was lost; her hands had slapped over her mouth. She gaped at them both for a second, then promptly started tapping at her kimoyo beads, biting her lip in glee. “Oh my God.”

“He—he was very tired,” Steve said weakly. “We didn’t mean—”

She raised her wrist at him. “Say cheese, Mr. Ambassador.”

 

 

 

 

Steve winced, but couldn’t stop her from taking a picture. Shuri sauntered across the room to come sit on the edge of the bed and started scratching the panther behind the ears. Steve was somewhat taken aback—he’d carefully avoided doing anything like that, reminding himself firmly that T’Challa was still a man and a king, cat-shaped or not. But Shuri was his little sister, and kept scratching until the panther stretched and sighed a contented cat sigh in its sleep. Its paws were so _big._ And—fluffy.

“I haven’t seen him like this in so long,” she whispered in delight. “He doesn’t like to shift for no reason, and doesn’t like to stay shifted for very long. Says Bast’s blessing is not to be wasted in trivialities.”

“Oh,” Steve said, frowning in worry. “Maybe we should wake him up, then.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best thing that’s ever happened.” She grinned. “He isn’t usually so careless. Go on! Rub his ears!”

Steve wanted very badly to rub T’Challa’s ears, which were so round and looked so soft—but he stoically kept his hands where they were. When Shuri started tickling its silk-soft nose, the panther’s golden eyes ended up blinking open; it raised its beautiful head, yawned a great red-and-white befanged yawn, then glared.

“Don’t look at _me_ like that,” Shuri said, the wide-eyed picture of innocence. _“You’re_ the one cuddling foreign dignitaries.”

The panther turned its head then jerked away from Steve, looking truly like a jungle cat for the very first time—an instinctive leap that had him startle as well. Shuri was giggling, but Steve wasn’t sure he should find this situation funny. The panther looked trapped, ears flat against its head, eyes wide. It hesitated for a moment, then jumped off the bed and quickly padded out of the room.

“Oh, brother, come on!” Shuri called—but he was gone. She sighed and shook her head, braids tinkling.

“I should apologize,” Steve ventured.

“Don’t you dare.” She looked at him, surprisingly serious. “Listen well. My brother was just betrayed by his oldest friend. The coup had no time to go anywhere; nothing was damaged, nothing needs fixing, except for T’Challa’s soul. He needs levity right now—and only you can truly lead him there. The rest of us are too close to his pain.”

Steve blinked at her. “I’m… not that good at levity, Princess Shuri.”

“Yes, I can see you are no party animal,” she said pityingly. “But I do fear that, in the immortal words of another princess, you are our only hope.”

That made him laugh. “Star Wars fan?”

“We put that antenna on the mountaintop for a reason.” She got up from the bed. “Remember: levity.”

Steve almost wished he’d been assigned some actual ambassador work involving yards and yards of legislation papers.

 

*

 

T’Challa was parsing through his kimoyo feed on the balcony, without absorbing any of the news and reports he read, when he heard Steve clear his throat at the door. He turned around, noting he could already recognize him by voice. Best not to think about it much.

“Hi. Um.” Steve rubbed the back of his head. “Is this a bad time?”

“Please, come in.” T’Challa dispelled his feed with a gesture. Having rested and washed and dressed, he felt faintly ashamed of himself—and determined to address it. “Steven, about last night…”

“It was nice,” Steve floundered. “I mean—please don’t be embarrassed. Don’t mention it. I… it was…”

“Nice,” T’Challa echoed. He wanted to smile, despite everything. “All right. No more about this. What can I do for you?”

Steve cleared his throat again. “It’s—come to my attention that I ruined my only good shirt. Everything else I own is stuffy military dress and… I’m not sure what to wear or where to buy it. I don’t mean to be asking you to—just point me to whoever’s in charge of that…”

“We do not have servants,” T’Challa reminded him. He knew Steve knew this already; something was afoot. “I am happy to accompany you to the tailor.”

“Oh, gosh, no—you probably have more important stuff to do…”

He was a terrible liar. T’Challa’s lips wanted to tick up again.

“Did Shuri put you up to this?”

“Shuri?” Steve widened his eyes like a child swearing he hadn’t been eating sweets behind mother’s back. “I—I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All right,” T’Challa said, frankly smiling now. “You are off the hook. Come.” He stepped away from the railing. “I have the morning free.”

 

T’Challa still had a lot of time to muse and mourn, sitting at the shop on tiny ebony chairs, accepting glass after glass of mango juice from the smiling tailor while Steve struggled behind the curtain with clothing he’d never encountered before. But every time T’Challa’s thoughts about W’Kabi took a dark turn, Steve would emerge from the cabin, comically misdressed, making the tailor’s hands fly up in horror and putting a smile on T’Challa’s lips, despite himself.

This went on for a while, until the tailor excused himself to take a call on his bracelet and Steve called T’Challa from behind the curtain.

“Is everything all right?” T’Challa asked, frowning.

“Yeah. Just.” Steve cleared his throat. “I really can’t make heads or tails of this one.”

He got up and stepped behind the curtain. Steve was—T’Challa averted his eyes. That was a lot of skin on display. He didn’t know why he was looking away; maybe because Steve had, on the mountain, when T’Challa had undressed. His Western modesty making him modest in turn.

It was insane to imagine they’d come so close to death and ruin not two days before, and that they were casually shopping in the city now, as if nothing had happened at all. But what else was there to do, except go through the motions until things started feeling normal again? Was there a mandatory period of shock, after such a blow—should T’Challa be staring at the wall, thinking of nothing? Could he mourn a friendship?

He certainly was staring at the wall now. Shaking himself, he forced his eyes to return to the expanse of Steve’s back, wide shoulders tapering into a narrow waist. Bast, the man was of absurdly perfect proportions. His skin was one of the fairest T’Challa had ever seen; a few scars stood out, rosy and stretched with age.

The cabin was small. T’Challa took a deep breath.

“Is this your problem?” he asked, pointing at a tunic hanging on a hook.

“That?” Steve said, craning his head to look. “No, I figured that one out first thing.”

T’Challa’s eyebrows raised. “Did you? I seem to recall you putting it on backwards not five minutes ago.”

A blush crept down Steve’s nape. He was turning his back to T’Challa, fiddling with a piece of beautifully embroidered cloth; his grey underwear looked painted on. He should be wearing nothing underneath his tunic, if he truly wanted to dress the Wakandan way—he should be standing nude right now, T’Challa caught himself thinking. Then chased the thought.

“I, uh,” Steve said, embarrassed. “Might’ve exaggerated some things.”

“You made yourself clumsier? Why?”

The blush deepened. “It made you laugh.”

T’Challa was speechless. After a few seconds, he reached around Steve to take the cloth from his hands.

“This one, then, is giving you trouble.”

“Uh—yeah.”

“It’s a shuka. Masai clothing. Hold still.” T’Challa draped the cloth over him, then pressed close against his back to knot it at the shoulder.

“Hold _very_ still,” he breathed. “I’m not wearing the mask.”

He expected Steve to exclaim that it was a terrible risk and they should go back to the palace at once. But Steve said nothing, staring steadily ahead, breathing a bit too evenly, like he was making an effort to keep it so. T’Challa was very close to his neck, the place where it met his shoulder line. He wanted to press his face to it, smell his skin. The urge was not foreign to him—he always felt it on some level, always hungry for touch. Most days he managed to put it out of his mind.

He pulled the shuka up to make a firm knot. “There.”

Steve turned, ducking his head with a smile when he realized how small the cabin really was. “Sorry. How do I look? Not too ridiculous?”

The shuka left his arms bare and hugged the planes of his chest, clinging to his narrow waist. T’Challa’s throat felt tight; he had to swallow before speaking. “It suits you.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, perking up.

“Yes.” T’Challa felt a shiver. He would have liked to blame it on the cold, but the little shop was stiflingly hot.

 

“Mother?” he asked, crossing her darkened rooms that always smelled of flowers.

“My child.” Ramonda embraced him delicately like she always did, from a distance, hands resting feather-light on his shoulders; then she held him at arms’ length to look at him. “How are you faring? These past few days…”

“I am not here to discuss W’Kabi,” T’Challa said.

She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No. He…” T’Challa shook his head. “He will have to talk to me eventually. In the meantime he will stay in the gaols.”

“You do not need to hear him. He tried to overthrow your rule. His words are not worth your attention.”

“I _want_ to hear him. I need to know what dug such a well of resentment in his heart.” T’Challa shook his head. “As I said—this is not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Then what?”

“Mother, when did—” His voice almost shook; he caught himself. “When did Father know the blessing had lifted?”

Ramonda stared at him for a long second.

“Did he feel it coming?” T’Challa insisted, shame burning his cheeks. “Or did he realize it had happened only when it was too late—after the fact?”

“T’Challa,” she said, and her voice was very soft, “is there someone…”

“No,” he said quickly.

A silence stretched in the comfortable room with veiled lights. He’d always felt safest here, when everywhere else felt too bright and loud. His mother would remain his mother, no matter how old he grew to be, how heavily kingliness rested on his shoulders.

“I just need an answer,” he said.

“My dear son.” She smiled. “The answer is: neither.”

He blinked. “It has to be one or the other.”

“No. I wish I could tell you—but it would not be fair to your father’s memory. What he found out on his own, you should discover by yourself, too. When the moment comes, you will understand—I promise you. Until then…” She pressed a hand to his heart. “Trust your instincts.”

 

T’Challa left his mother’s rooms more frustrated than he’d come. He thought of going to Shuri, but she would theorize at length, pressure him into more experiments, and worse—she might guess who it was. Bast knew it was not a very hard guess.

Except what was there to guess? T’Challa was wounded with W’Kabi’s betrayal, and Steve was a fresh new presence, marveling at the commonplace, making T’Challa discover his own country again through his foreign blue eyes. Enchanting him, when T’Challa sorely needed enchantment. This was nothing more. Only the shared closeness of death on the mountain, digging too deep a bond, too fast.

His feet led him to the great balcony. Somehow, he was not surprised to find Steve there, looking at the moon.

“Oh—hey.” He turned when he heard T’Challa approach. “Can’t sleep either?”

“No.” _Trust your instincts,_ Ramonda had said. T’Challa sighed inwardly. He knew what he wanted to do; whether he should give in was another story.

But he was weary and sad, and tired of fretting.

So he took a deep breath. “Would you like to walk with me? Birnin Zana is beautiful at night.”

Steve always looked surprised and pleased whenever T’Challa offered him his friendship—like he’d never imagined T’Challa could do him such an honor. Like he believed he was worth no one’s interest at all.

“Happy to.” He was still barefoot, too, which felt like unearned trust after what had happened. “Lead the way.”

 

They wandered away from the crowded, brightly colored streets that never slept and found the main canal splitting the city in half, in in a manmade bed of stone. A narrow flight of stairs led them to the water, and they slowly walked down its mossy, fragrant banks.

T’Challa was wearing all black as usual, a shadow among shadows; his reflection on the water was almost invisible next to Steve in the loose sportswear he wore to bed, white t-shirt and blue track pants. Minuscule grey frogs chirped away from sight, sometimes leaping into the water with a loud _plop._

“How are you feeling?” Steve asked, earnest as ever.

“Good. Which is odd. I should be confused. Perhaps devastated. And I am, on some level. But it’s removed from me.” He looked down. “Like this shadow in the water.”

“That’s normal. A defense mechanism. Takes a while to process something like that.”

“How are _you?”_ T’Challa asked. “Nobody asks. But you almost died.”

“Honestly? It doesn’t do much to me anymore. Happened too many times.” Steve shrugged. “When I say I’m fine, it’s not just a—a shadow in the water. Soldiers stop counting after a while.”

“You’re not a soldier anymore,” T’Challa said softly.

“In some ways, I’ll always be.” Steve shot him a tired smile. “But we were talking about you.”

“No, I want to stay on you. What you said about knowing the politics, but not the culture of my country—it marked me. I’ve looked into the politics of you long before you ever set foot on Wakandan soil. But I know very little about…”

“What, the ‘culture of me’? There’s not much to tell.” Steve took a deep breath. “I grew up in Brooklyn, went to art school, dropped out when my mom died. Joined up.” He swallowed thickly. “Fell in love. Then I lost everything. I thought it’d be the last page of my story, but now…” He looked up at the night sky. “Now I’m here.”

Another frog jumped from a water lily, and the arch of an ancient, narrow stone bridge appeared at the turn of the canal. This was the old city, with unsteady stones held together with vines and gods’ will, tiny purple flowers growing through cracks in the pavement, all carefully maintained but never renovated, never fixed. Some things were more beautiful when flawed.

“Fell in love?” T’Challa asked, though he felt he would regret it.

Steve looked steadily ahead. “The guy I went to get, the day I earned that goddamn medal.”

T’Challa stopped dead.

After a few steps alone, Steve noticed he wasn’t following and turned around. “T’Challa?”

In a lot of ways already, Steve had chipped and scratched the portrayal T’Challa had painted of him in his head ahead of time. Yet some parts of it had remained as fixed truths—one of them the fact that an American soldier, a captain, someone who’d earned the approval of people such as General Ross, must be conservative in a lot of ways. Such as sexuality by Western standards.

To know that he was not—it opened a door T’Challa suddenly feared.

He made an effort to set his own wariness aside and react instead to what Steve had just told him. “I am… deeply sorry. For your loss.”

Steve’s lips pulled up in the sad half-smile he’d displayed too often already. “It was ten years ago.” The line of his shoulders relaxed by a fraction. “But thanks. For a moment I thought—I don’t know.”

“That Wakanda would not welcome a man like you?” T’Challa said, cursing himself inwardly for his moment of shock. To have made him afraid, even for just a moment, was unacceptable.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He scratched the back of his head. “It’s not _that_ widely accepted where I come from. And I’m afraid we don’t see Africa as—ah—a very progressive place. Sorry about that.”

“There are a lot of subtleties here as well. Sexuality is a complex matter in all and every cultures, I believe.” _What on earth am I saying,_ T’Challa lamented inwardly. Did he have nothing better than platitudes? “But—but please, be certain that nobody will belittle you for it.”

“Good. That’s good to know.”

The night was very warm, with a velvety quality to the air. They’d walked very far from the palace; they would have to return on foot, and it was very late, meaning they should have probably turned back right then. But they kept going, saying nothing much, listening to the frogs and the soft lapping of water. T’Challa found it more restful than if he’d been sleeping. His thoughts were drifting inside his head like a lost boat at sea.

 _Tell me,_ he prayed to Bast, fleetingly. _What should I do?_

But he got no answer in return, only this same heady, lingering knowledge of the possibility of love, waiting for him across the threshold.

 

*

 

Steve didn’t feel tired at breakfast, only pleasantly dazed. As far as sleepless nights went, it hadn’t been a bad one. He felt like they could have walked down the canal forever; they’d turned around only at the first hints of dawn, and watched their shadows walking ahead of them on the way back.

“Morning,” Okoye said crisply, coming down the stairs to the great dining room.

“Good morning, General.” Steve was man enough to admit he was a little intimidated by her. “Is—is T’Challa…”

 _“His Majesty_ is still asleep,” she said pointedly.

“Oh. Sorry.” He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for calling T’Challa by his name, or for keeping him up all night. In doubt, he didn’t add anything.

Okoye sat at the table and reached for the fruits basket. Steve had no idea what to say next. Asking her if she was dealing well with her husband’s betrayal was _probably_ a social faux pas. He wandered around in circles inside his own head for a while, wished he had his phone to fiddle with, then wished he had kimoyo beads—then looked down at his wrist and realized, for the first time since they’d been rescued from the mountaintop, that he wasn’t wearing a bracelet at all.

He could not understand why it hadn’t hit him before this moment, a week after the fact.

Okoye had seen him freeze. “Is there a problem, Mr. Ambassador?”

“My black beads,” he said, looking up at her. “They’re gone.”

“Yes. Shuri removed them while she was treating you.”

“But—” He was baffled. “Does this mean I’m free to do what I want?”

Okoye gave him a very strange look. Steve understood how it might seem weird—a prisoner asking for his cell to be locked, instead of quietly scurrying away when he realized the door had been left open. But if he’d ever been a prisoner in Wakanda, he’d been willing.

“The subject has not come up yet,” Okoye said carefully. “I’d advise notifying His Majesty before sending a report home. In case he’s forgotten.”

“In case he’s forgotten,” Steve repeated.

“T’Challa trusts deeply.” Okoye’s face was a stone mask. “Something you had better remember, if your intentions are genuine.”

Ramonda entered the room next, and they both tacitly avoided the subject for the rest of the meal. Steve still had a hard time thinking about anything else.

 

T’Challa was a difficult man to pin down that day, locked in a series of meetings with his Taifa Ngao— _Tribe Council,_ Steve knew. He’d probably get to meet them when they discussed border security, trade and immigration; but he could see how those were not priority topics at the moment. So he just brushed up on his Xhosa, went to the market to buy new kimoyo beads, and sat in the gardens sketching for a while. Art had come back to him naturally in Wakanda, too.

The evening had come, hot and stifling, when he finally ran into T’Challa almost by accident—on the great stone terrace overlooking the canopy. The king was bare-chested and wielding a long spear that was obviously blunted for training, twirling it in a series of practiced moves that looked almost more meditative than warlike. Hearing Steve, he turned and smiled his secret smile.

“Ah! Mr. Ambassador. Just the man I wanted to see.”

“To do what?” Steve inquired, amused. “I’ve never used a spear, you know.”

“First time for everything.” T’Challa gestured at the slow sunset. “Wakandan martial arts begin by bowing to the sun. Go on.”

Steve bowed.

“No experience?” T’Challa asked. “None at all?”

“I did some bo staff when I was in college. Should be similar enough.”

“Good. Let us spar freely for today, see what comes of it.”

Steve eyed T’Challa’s bare torso, trying not to make it look like he was staring—it was very difficult not to stare, but the expanse of his skin made him nervous for another reason. “What if…”

“That is my problem to handle,” T’Challa answered, “and my strategy. I have spent all day debating the Council. I need a good clean-cut fight, and I must say I am curious to fight you.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “With your agreement.”

“Is this a test?” Steve smiled, taking a spear.

“For the both of us, maybe,” T’Challa answered cryptically.

Steve felt a twist in his stomach.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I wanted to ask you about—whoa!”

T’Challa had attacked without warning, and Steve had blocked his weapon only through sheer reflex.

“Ah! A dialogue. Good.” T’Challa smiled, then pulled back to circle around Steve. “Talk, _and_ fight. It can be done, with a bit of focus.”

Well. Steve was happy to help him unwind in any way he liked.

“All right,” he said, taking off his shirt—which was already soaked in sweat anyway. “What are we trying to do here? Land a blow?”

“The possibility of a blow,” T’Challa said, still circling. “A good fighter knows when to stop.”

“Gotcha,” Steve said, and ran in.

T’Challa’s blunted blade stopped an inch from his throat quickly enough. “One to zero.”

They started again, Steve being more cautious, weighing his weapon, measuring his steps, and found his moment; got him in the stomach, almost to skin. “One and one.”

T’Challa clapped one-handed, against the flat of his own chest, to salute his move. “I did not think soldiers learned to fight in this way.”

Circling, circling. “They don’t,” Steve answered—leaping forward, jumping back, twirling, deflecting the spear with a great clacking noise—“Like I said, I did some martial arts on my own,” panting now.

T’Challa attacked again, and the spears were good, Steve thought, reassuring; they maintained distance, minimized the risk for touch. Still, all that skin on display. Muscle rolling under sun-kissed bronze. Dizzying.

“Not the Army, then?” T’Challa asked, and Steve tried to—“No,” he gasped when his attempt failed, T’Challa smoothly stepping out of reach, “they taught us how to shoot a gun and that’s about it.”

“You really do hate them, don’t you,” T’Challa observed placidly, and Steve charged on—only to find a spear pointed at his gut. “Two to one.”

Steve disengaged. “I hate armies,” he said. “I hate war. Doesn’t mean I can stop being a soldier. God knows I've tried.”

T’Challa was breathing hard, gleaming with sweat. “I can't imagine you as a mercenary.”

Steve suddenly engaged once more, finding T’Challa’s thigh in a burst of speed. “Two and two.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “No. I mean—a nomad. Someone who’s not bound by where they were born. Who can go where the fight calls, instead of calling the fight.”

T’Challa engaged, ferocious, fast as lightning, and Steve didn’t think—held his foot out to brush his shin, just to see what he’d do. T’Challa stopped and jumped back at the last moment, tottering on one leg.

“Cheat!” he called out, but he was grinning.

“Am I?” Steve smiled back. “Come on, look at us. It’s like you _want_ me to touch you.”

An odd look twitched across T’Challa’s face, too quick to be deciphered.

“Ah,” he said, “well. Maybe I do.”

Steve was suddenly very aware of every little detail of the light around him, cascading on the white marble terrace. The wood of the spear was soft and smooth under his fingers, dark with sweat where he’d held on too tight. He didn’t know how to react to what T’Challa had just said. Didn’t know what it meant. It felt like maybe he shouldn’t even acknowledge it.

“You’re better than I thought you’d be,” T’Challa told him.

Steve swallowed. “You took my black beads away.”

T’Challa must have expected this from the start. He looked away. Sweat trickled down his temples in rivulets.

“Do you think I am a fool to trust you?” he said. “After what just happened with W’Kabi?”

“No.”

The bluntness of his answer obviously surprised T’Challa, who looked back at him with a blink. “No?”

“No.” Steve put down the spear. The fight was over. “I know why I’ve come here. I know I’ve never lied to you. So as far as I’m concerned, you’re right to trust me. ‘Cause I know I won’t betray you.”

T’Challa smiled. “Simple as that.”

“Simple for me,” Steve shrugged. “I understand it’s not that clear-cut for you, or anyone else. If you want to put the cuff back on, I won’t be offended.”

T’Challa gave him a long look. The smile was gone as fast as it had come, but some of it remained in the tightness around his eyes. “No,” he said at last. “No, my friend.” He put his spear away, too. “Come—let us freshen up before dinner.”

 

“Oh oh _oh,”_ Shuri said, sitting next to him at dinner. “What did you do to my big brother? He looks more relaxed than he has in weeks.”

“We just sparred a little,” Steve said.

People thought he was a bad liar, and they were right; but withholding part of the truth was as easy as breathing, especially when he was protecting someone else’s intimacy. You just closed yourself off and spoke in bits and pieces.

He remembered T’Challa telling him about his hunger for touch on the mountaintop; T’Challa coming to him for the night, after W’Kabi was arrested; T’Challa plainly asking Steve if he thought trusting him was idiotic, only a few hours ago. Despite his loneliness and his longing, T’Challa wanted to believe this world was good. He didn’t want to ever lose faith in people. He didn't want to shut himself away just because he couldn't be touched.

Steve was ashamed of himself when he put himself next to the Wakandan king, because everything he’d been told to do—open up, communicate his pain, ask for advice and for help—T’Challa did as freely as his peculiar status permitted. He was genuine in everything he did and said. And if he did not talk about how much he suffered from Bast’s blessing, it was out of respect—for his god, and for his family, who couldn’t have done much to help except fret and worry.

“He is looking at you,” Shuri said.

The table was long and wide that night—the Taifa Ngao was eating with them along with their seconds-in-command, which meant that over two dozen people were at dinner. T’Challa was seated at one end and Steve at the other. Tonight, the king was wearing a dark blue tunic like a night sky.

He _was_ looking at Steve, every once in a while. Steve found himself waiting for those glances, and returning them, whenever he could, even though he did not yet know what they meant. He almost felt like he could guess. He almost felt like he already knew.

 _Maybe I do want you to touch me,_ T’Challa had said.

Steve wanted it, too. To realize it was like falling into the sea after being slowly backed towards the edge of a cliff; not a surprise, but still a shock. Now he was in, submerged and confused, trying to tell up from down. The Wakandan king. _The Wakandan king._

He’d been afraid—afraid of cheating on Bucky even beyond the grave. But even amidst the confusion of his feelings, there was relief now. T’Challa wasn’t taking Bucky’s place in Steve’s heart. How could he? How could _anyone?_ Instead, he was making a place of his own—because how could he _not,_ when they were both so different? Everything Steve had loved in Bucky, T’Challa did not have, and did not need. This was a new sketch in Steve’s book; an entirely new portrait, but drawn with the same pencil. Nobody was getting erased, or ripped out, or overwritten. He still had some blank pages left inside him.

Something he wouldn’t have believed, before he came here.

“God,” he said under his breath, very quietly. “What am I gonna do now, Buck?”

When he looked up, T’Challa’s eyes were on him again. It felt like a touch. Almost.

 

*

 

“So,” Shuri said, late at night in the lab, apropos of nothing. 

T’Challa looked up from his neural calibrations tests for a new set of kimoyo beads. “So?” he repeated.

“You are spending a lot of time with the US ambassador.” She clicked a setting on her microscope. _“Steve._ As you keep calling him.”

“We have saved each other’s lives. That deserves a first-name basis.”

“Uh-huh.” Another click.

T’Challa closed his eyes with a sigh. He could never hide anything from his little sister for very long.

“Has it happened already?” she asked quietly. “Is the blessing gone?”

“No.” T’Challa swallowed. “I am not sure I should allow it. To throw away—”

 _“Allow? Throw away?_ Bast gives and Bast takes.” Shuri looked straight at him. Her eyes were shining. “You… you are in love. That has _never_ happened.”

“This is not love,” T’Challa said, feeling a tug at his heart even as he spoke the words.

“Oh?”

This was not love, but Steve’s presence felt like salve on a raw wound. This was not love, but no one had ever gotten so close to T’Challa, save for people he’d known all his life. This was not love, but it might be.

How he _wanted_ it to be.

“It is—too early—to say,” he went on haltingly.

“Do you not _like_ him?”

A loaded question. “He is a good man.”

“Yes. And handsome.”

“Shuri—”

“And noble, and humble, and kind.” She looked at him. “And very problematic, on a political level.”

“Bast. Do not remind me,” T’Challa sighed, burying his face in his hands. “I cannot court the US ambassador.”

“But you would like that,” she murmured.

T’Challa stared into space. He would have liked to feel Steve’s hands on his human skin, rather than through the prism of panther senses. He wanted Steve to touch him, more than he’d ever wanted anyone to touch him. He wanted Steve to smile at him in that way he had—like nobody on this earth could make him happier than T’Challa did. Amidst his otherwise complicated life, those feelings were quite straightforward.

A shudder again. T’Challa shook his head hard. No, no, how could he? Bast’s blessing should be preserved and cherished. Steve was worthy of love—so clearly, so much _—_ but not enough to make T’Challa renounce his country, nor his goddess. He closed his eyes.

“I should go to bed.”

“This is not a dream,” Shuri said. “It will not go away with morning.”

“You don’t know that,” he answered childishly, getting up.

 

The hallways were dark. He did not turn on the light, and allowed himself to take a wrong turn. More childish still. Bast knew where his feet were taking him—and he knew, too. He found himself to Steve’s door, almost went on his way, then screwed his eyes shut for a moment and knocked.

 _Just one knock,_ he promised himself. _Just this once. And if he doesn’t answer the door, I leave._

But the door opened.

T’Challa felt something akin to desperation. Why was Steve always there to open the door? If he kept doing that, T’Challa would end up going in.

“T’Challa?”

His hair was disheveled and untidy, his eyes soft with sleep. His body, so close and so warm, so easy for the eye to trace under the clothes. T’Challa looked away. _The US ambassador,_ he repeated to himself. What was he doing? This wasn’t even about Bast’s blessing. He was putting his whole country’s fate in jeopardy, when it had come close to disaster already.

But he didn’t want to think about W’Kabi right now. He had to focus on the moment before he did something he couldn’t repair.

“My apologies,” he said. “I… do not know why I’ve come here. Please get some rest. I will do the same.”

He was turning away when Steve’s voice stopped him.

“Hey.”

T’Challa turned around. Steve was holding himself awkwardly at the threshold. Bast, how T’Challa wanted to go into that room. But he could not. He must not.

“Just—” He swallowed, then reached out with one arm, for an embrace. “Just for a minute. You look—I don’t know. You look like you need it.”

It startled a laugh out of T’Challa.

“You are so—” he tried to hold the word back, in case it was received as an insult; but he found no other, and ended up letting it out, “—kind. And forgetful.” He smiled. “I cannot be hugged.”

“Sure you can,” Steve said mulishly. “Hold still for me?”

T’Challa spread his arms in a silent invitation. He felt like he was opening himself to a blade—something that might hurt him terribly. His heart was beating fast and loud in his ears.

Steve stepped forward and, at first, hugged him the way Ramonda always did—light and tentative, making sure his hands did not brush skin. But once he’d found his marks, he pressed himself against T’Challa’s body and tightened his embrace, tight, _tight_.

It was an entirely new feeling. T’Challa rested his face over Steve’s shoulder, blinking fast to chase wetness out of his eyes. He felt—like someone was pouring warmth into his veins. His own arms came up, resting on Steve’s back at first, then clutching at his shirt. Steve’s embrace tightened even more in answer, and T’Challa’s eyes fluttered shut. It felt so good. His heart ached almost to death. It was too much at once, but he wanted more. He held tighter, squeezed—

And his cheek brushed Steve’s throat.

A blink, a tug twisting his world inside out, and he was looking at a much clearer view of the hallway. Night vision. He bit back a curse he couldn’t have expressed and pushed away from Steve, falling back down on four paws. It always ended like this. They shouldn’t even have tried.

“Hey,” Steve said again. He slowly sat down so his head would be level with T’Challa’s, and reached out to grab the back of T’Challa’s neck, sinking his fingers into the fur. That felt good too—distanced, like everything did in the panther’s body. But still better than nothing. “It’s okay.”

T’Challa looked away. Steve shook him a little, gently.

“C’mon. The last time…” He looked at the bed through the open door. “We can do that again. You don’t need to be human to sleep next to someone.”

It was right then that T’Challa realized Steve wasn’t just indulging him. Everything he did—kindness, yes, but not just kindness. Maybe he—maybe he also—

He tugged himself free, then turned around and fled. By the time he got to his room, he still hadn’t shifted back; so he curled up on his bed in panther shape, into a tight ball with his tail around him like a flimsy barrier against the world. The mattress felt more immense and desolate to him than the snowfields on Bashenga’s Fang.

 

The next day, he went to see W’Kabi in the palace gaols.

They were pits carved into the ground, so smooth it was impossible to climb out without help. Food and water were lowered to the prisoners thrice a day. It was not hell—they were open, airy and well-lit, large enough for one to exercise and run laps. The prisoners could talk to each other from one pit to the other. But it was prison all the same.

T’Challa went with Ayo to guard him and climbed down a ladder to reach W’Kabi in his pit. His friend was sleeping on the straw mattress on the ground, clad in featureless beige. He looked thinner than usual without the bulk of his armored cloak.

“W’Kabi,” T’Challa said, softly. “Wake up.”

W’Kabi stirred, then looked at him. “T’Challa.” He closed his eyes again. “I am still asleep. What do you want?”

The insult, even understated, stung like a hornet. T’Challa swallowed thickly.

“I can accept that you hated my politics,” he began quietly. “I can accept that you truly believed, in your heart, that I was leading the country to its doom. I can even accept that you chose not to talk to me—that you believed me foolish, and beyond reason.” Tears burned his eyes, and his throat tightened. “What I cannot accept,” he forced out, “is that I lost my _friend._ I am feeling more adrift now than I ever have before—lost in an emotion I cannot master or understand, afraid of myself. I don’t know what to do, without your advice, without your sympathy, without your support. I need you, and _you are not there.”_

W’Kabi was staring at him. He sat up. “I will not talk to the king. But—to you, my friend—maybe I can still talk.”

There was an unmistakable glint of interest in his eye. He thought he could use this to get out—or shorten his sentence—or something else. T'Challa's eyes burned with tears.

“Friend?” he repeated. “You never were my friend. _That_ is the wound I cannot mend.”

“Tell me—what ails you, brother?” W’Kabi insisted. “If not my own coup, then what?”

“I am falling in love,” T’Challa said. “I can feel Bast’s blessing slipping away from me. I am at a crossroads and I don’t know where to head. I am afraid.”

W’Kabi’s face twisted into a scowl. “In love?” he repeated. “T’Challa! Not with—not with that man? What, because he’s uncovered your secret and you’ve mistaken it for intimacy? Have you sunk so low?”

T’Challa huffed, shakily, then turned away to go back to the ladder.

“Ah—wait,” W’Kabi said. “You couldn’t expect me to agree—T’Challa, I meant no insult, if you’d only listen—”

“A friend,” he said, “would have at least tried to keep the disgust off his face. Goodbye, W’Kabi.”

He climbed out of the pit and sat on the edge while the ladder was pulled up. He felt very tired all of a sudden—tired and hot, like he’d been carrying something heavy and cumbersome for a long while, and found himself unable to move now that he’d finally set his burden down.

“My King.” Someone offered him a hand.

He took it, expecting Ayo. But she was gone, and Okoye was there instead.

“I think it is about time,” she said, pulling him up to his feet, “you and I had a talk.”

 

“You talked to the Queen Mother. You talked to Shuri. You talked to Rogers himself.” She tilted her head to the side. “And now you have even talked to W’Kabi. But what about me?”

“W’Kabi is your husband before he is my friend. I… assumed you had troubles of your own to deal with.” T’Challa looked at his hands on the tabletop. “How long have you two been married? Twenty years?”

“Twenty-three,” she said without batting an eyelid. “It goes to show you can never really know someone.”

“Don’t say that. Please.”

“Why not?” She looked at him. “Because you are afraid I am telling you to give up on Steve Rogers?”

“O Bast,” T’Challa moaned, resting his forehead on his hands, “is it written on my face?”

“Your friendship is obvious. As for your further-than-friendship, Shuri talks.” She smiled. “To a chosen few.”

T’Challa pressed his palms to his eyes, shaking his head. “I should give up. I will give up.”

" _T'Challa,”_ Okoye said.

She rarely called him by his given name; it made him look up.

“Like talking to a wall. Enough wallowing!” She flicked his face, just far enough that she didn’t actually touch him. “As I said. _You can never really know someone._ Long-time friend? Complete stranger? The same. So why not take a chance with either? Since your odds are equal!”

T’Challa blinked at her. “But,” he said weakly. “Bast’s blessing…”

 _“Blessing,”_ she repeated. “Are you feeling blessed these days? You look more miserable than W’Kabi in his pit. You speak of Bast? Bast sent you Rogers for a reason. Gods! He hasn’t been here a month and already he has saved your life! And…”

She shut up. Then she reached out—fingers stopping just short of T’Challa’s across the table.

“And I will say something else,” she said. “Nobody has borne the blessing as long as you have. Your father only acquired it when his own mother passed, and he died the day you were born; he had it for ten years. You have had it all your life.”

T’Challa stared at her for a long minute.

“What are you saying?” he asked quietly.

“That after all these years,” she smiled, “I would enjoy not minding myself around you. And I know Princess Shuri and the Queen Mother agree with me.”

He kept staring. And as he stared, his eyes filled with tears.

He had thought—he had been trying hard to show nothing of his pain; to display only appreciation of his blessing. To know, now, to know that they all suffered the way he did—that they all longed to embrace him, the way he longed to embrace them—it closed like a fist over his heart and made him feel a great vibration shimmering up his spine, a great beat of starlight waiting to explode behind his eyes.

Finally, he understood what his mother had tried to tell him—what she had said he must discover by himself. He had asked her— _when the blessing lifts, will I feel it coming? Will I only realize it after the fact?_ And she had answered, _neither._ Because indeed it was neither. What he felt now was the _possibility_ of change. The open door was there for him to go through. It had been waiting for him. But it was up to him to decide, to take the leap.

“Is this the right thing to do?” he whispered.

Okoye raised an eyebrow. “Are you in love with Steve Rogers?”

He felt his cheeks heat up, but he did not look away. “Yes.”

The heat gathering up his back had made him expect an explosion. But it was very quiet and sweet: a knot undoing itself, coming loose, a flower blooming in the spring sun. He pushed up and away from the table.

“I have to go.”

 

*

 

Steve was training in the inner garden, following the program Shuri had added into his kimoyo beads for spearhandling. A wisteria in full bloom was lacing through the arbor vine over his head, luxurious and fragrant, grapes of flowers brushing the top of his head. The shadows were dappled with sun, the sun dappled with shadows.

He’d written his report to Ross that morning, making it as boring and formal as possible. He would keep laying low. He would keep politicians and military men believing that they had a pawn in him. All the while, his roots would grow ever deeper in Wakandan soil; and when push came to shove—when _they_ expected him to do the shoving—they’d find out he had planted himself like a tree, and could no longer be moved.

He was thinking about this fleetingly, in a half-formed way, with an eye on his beads’ hologram walking him through the sequence of moves. Twirl, slash, parry. Shirtless and barefoot, he wasn’t too hot. He was getting used to the heat already. A heavy humid heat just like in Brooklyn summers. Bucky and him, on the fire escape, laughing.

Wakanda was a strange home to him. But he knew it could be home, all the same, if he let it. And for the first time in a long while, he felt ready to let good things happen to him.

He lowered his spear, wiped his brow, and suddenly became aware that T’Challa was standing at the patio door.

The king looked—breathless, as though he’d run all the way. And beautiful, too, like he always did. He was his long shadow self with silver edges, his starry-night eyes now fixed on Steve, like he was trying to make sense of him. There was no secret laughter there this time, but something else that Steve couldn’t read.

“T’Challa?” Steve lowered his spear. “Is something wrong?”

Without a word, T’Challa stepped out into the patio. Dappled light brushed over him as he walked, like leopard spots. Steve set his spear down altogether.

“T’Challa?” he repeated.

“My friend,” T’Challa said. “I…”

He couldn’t go on. Steve stepped forward and took both his hands, afraid now. “What happened? Tell me, and if I can help—”

And then he stopped and looked at their joined hands.

He wasn’t feeling soft suede underneath his fingers, but calluses and warmth.

“T’Challa,” he whispered in awe.

T’Challa’s fingers tightened around his, almost to the point of pain.

Steve squeezed just as hard. His throat was very dry. “I… I don’t understand.”

The King of Wakanda smiled. His eyes were bright with tears.

“I have rehearsed my words,” he said, “all the way through the palace. But now… now I find I am too terrified to speak.” He laughed. “And of course, no one will call this a smart move. Politically speaking.”

 _“T’Challa.”_ Steve almost didn’t dare breathe.

“I think you already know. I…” His eyes met Steve’s. “You may not feel the same. But no matter. It is enough to have allowed me to walk through this door.”

“Not feel the same,” Steve repeated incredulously, feeling like the sun was rising in his chest.

He freed his right hand from their tight grip and slowly, carefully cupped T’Challa’s face. The king’s eyes fluttered shut. He raised his own fingers to cover Steve’s, with the lightest of touches.

Steve was so choked up he couldn’t hope to speak without making a fool of himself. But he had to say _something._

“Your—your blessing,” he managed.

 _“This_ is a blessing. Brilliant and new.” When T’Challa reopened his eyes, the secret laughter was there this time, even softer than usual. “It would seem Bast really does see all and know best.”

“I—I want to tell you—I need to tell you—” Steve took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’m terrified too.”

“Oh good.” T’Challa was very close, his voice fading into a murmur. “Then I am not alone.”

“No.” Steve’s other hand came up to frame his face; T’Challa’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, where the black beads had been. “No, you’re not.”

When their lips pressed together, Steve felt a moment of fear—T’Challa’s first kiss, his _first kiss,_ and Steve would be his first _everything—_ then let it go. He would not let T’Challa down. He _could_ not. T’Challa was trembling, so Steve pulled him close, wrapped him in his arms and let his hands come up the back of his head, through his hair that felt so different from his own. T’Challa’s mouth was warm and shy. Steve’s legs felt like jelly; he wasn’t sure how he was still standing, and T’Challa himself seemed to be standing only because he was hanging onto Steve.

“I never knew,” he breathed when they came up for air, “when I first saw you—I didn’t know yet—”

“God, me neither. Me neither.” Steve smiled at him. Suddenly all he wanted to do was smile. He hadn’t felt anything like it in such a long while. And T’Challa smiled back, bright and happy, like he felt exactly the same.

“My love,” he said, melting Steve’s brain. He pressed their foreheads together. “May I touch you?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Always. Can I—” Steve hesitated. “Can I touch _you?”_

“Please,” T’Challa murmured like a starving man. _“Please.”_

The sun wouldn’t set for another hour; it filtered through the heavy drapes over T’Challa’s windows, like it was trying to peek inside—strands of fire lining the curtain, orange and gold.

“Wait,” Steve gasped, breaking the kiss, when he saw T’Challa beginning to pull off his tunic.

“What’s wrong?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t… I don’t want to rush you. If I messed this up—I couldn’t ever forgive myself, T’Challa—”

T’Challa blinked. Then grinned. “I am not a virgin.”

Steve stared. “You’re. Um. You’re not?”

“There _are_ ways of sharing sexual pleasure without skin touching.” His smile seemed almost too wide for his face, eyes crinkling with joy. “Would you like details?”

“No. Oh God.” Steve’s cheeks were flushing hot. He sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. “I’m such a goddamn dumbass.”

He felt the mattress dip when T’Challa sat next to him. His hands, his wonderful calloused hands, closed around Steve’s wrists to bring his hands down.

“But it _was_ my first kiss,” he said quietly.

Steve managed to meet his eyes. “Oh.”

“Yes.” T’Challa was still smiling. “And I appreciate you worrying about this. Everything you do or say reminds me that I’ve chosen well.”

Steve suddenly felt like _he_ was the inexperienced one. He’d never been a smooth talker; at the time it had been all Bucky. In this, too, T’Challa was similar yet different, not the type to whisper sweet nothings that rolled off the tongue (and how sweet those nothings had been) but simple earnest truths that shone like jewels. God. He’d said— _my love_ —while looking at Steve. No one had ever said that to him. Not out loud. Saying it back felt like an impossible feat; just thinking about it made Steve blush.

A truth, though. He could manage a simple, earnest truth of his own. God knew he owed it to T’Challa.

“I—” Steve cleared his throat, staring at his lap. “I was lost. For a long time. And. You saved me.”

When he looked up, his heart suddenly slammed into high gear, because T’Challa looked like Steve had just invented all of Keats and laid poem after poem at his feet. It made him a bit braver; enough to say one more.

“I expected nothing, coming here. But you gave me…” There was a lump in his throat. “You gave me _everything.”_

“Not yet,” T’Challa said in a hoarse whisper. And he kissed him again.

 

*

 

Steve was beautiful. His body was perfect, his face carved out of marble, his eyes out of gems, his lips out of roses. But a selfish man could have been handsome as well; that evening, as shadows stretched endlessly against the sun, evening taking forever to turn into night, Steve seemed determined to prove he was anything but selfish. Maybe he was still nervous about ruining this first time for T’Challa—and it was, in a way, his first time. A million of first times all at once.

When T’Challa whispered, “Touch me,” Steve reached down and did it.

A single touch and already, T’Challa felt like he was not all there, like he was gone on his way to the best climb, the one that led to skies of pleasure instead of dead fields of snow. Steve ran hot, so hot it seemed incredible they had one day been so cold. And even then they had held each other; they had kept each other warm.

“You okay?” Steve said, so quietly, right in his ear.

“Yes.” T’Challa’s chest was tight; he drew in a shaky breath. “I—it is so much—I am sorry…”

“Don’t apologize.” Steve rolled on top of him, straddled him, pressed him into the bed. He was everywhere. Square miles of skin, the great expanse of his back, the muscles of his chest, and his weight—his marvelous weight weighing T’Challa down into the bed, pinning him there. He could have choked with happiness. And Steve’s hand, his skilled hand, skin on naked skin—T’Challa had to bite his fist not to make any noise. It was _too good,_ he couldn’t stay silent, he couldn’t hold on, he was going to burst—felt it coming, like plasma backing up his spine, lighting up his nerves, every last frayed end of them…

“I want to hear you,” Steve whispered. “Don’t hold back.”

“Shameful,” T’Challa managed, trembling now.

“No. No. You’re so—Christ, T’Challa, you’re so beautiful.”

“You. It’s you. All—you.” He closed his eyes. “You—are—everywhere.”

“Look at me. Can you keep looking at me? Please.”

T’Challa opened his eyes. Steve was—Steve was—

He bent down for another kiss, long and hot and deep, and T’Challa felt his determination like a wave, the swelling rise of it, all of his body conspiring to bring T’Challa to the edge—his hips, grinding down, his hand, tight then loose then tight, his teeth, closing on T’Challa’s shoulder, biting, biting like a panther bites its mate—

And it was there, the fracture in time, between _then_ and _now;_ one door slamming for good, the other opening; and T’Challa lost control of his voice at last, just as his pleasure slicked up Steve’s hand.

The next few minutes were a confused jumble of tangled limbs and caresses, fractioned shapes in the dark, kisses with lips and fingertips, exhales mingling with gasps. In the midst of it all, T’Challa’s hand found Steve, who tensed.

“You don’t have to…”

“Will you be silent,” T’Challa said. “I have waited all my life for this.”

He got a laugh in answer. Steve didn’t laugh often—which was a shame; he had such a wonderful laugh. “Oh, well, in that case. It’s as my king wishes.”

T’Challa felt a sharp heat rush back into him. Steve noticed it, pink lips drawing up into a knowing smile.

 _“My king,”_ he repeated. “Like that?”

T’Challa probably should not have liked it _that_ much. But Steve was grinning now.

“Your Majesty,” he said. Then, “Your Majesty,” when T’Challa took him firmly in hand, “Your Majesty,” when T’Challa got his first taste of him, “Your Ma— _ahh—T’Challa…”_

His title was _good._ But his name? His name was best.

 

In the morning they took a long shower and came down to breakfast. T’Challa felt fragile and new like he’d gone to the Djalia and back during the night.

Shuri and Okoye and Ramonda were there, waiting for them, looking like none of them had slept much. A faint smell of herbal incense floated in the air, which meant they’d spent at least part of the night praying to Bast. T’Challa knew what they had prayed for, and was moved almost to tears.

When he came in with Steve, all three women looked up.

Shuri said, “T’Challa—” and then saw him holding hands with Steve.

For a moment nothing moved; then she got up with a shriek and ran across the room to throw herself at him. He caught her, laughing, and laughed even more when she pressed a thousand kisses to his nose and cheeks and forehead. Ramonda came next and hugged T’Challa like he’d never before been hugged by his mother; and Okoye came third, wrapping a hand behind his neck, lacing an arm around his waist. She was smiling so hard, and had tearful eyes; all three of them had, Ramonda thanking Bast under her breath, Shuri wondering out loud at the fact that _she_ had not inherited the blessing—and how could that be when no one else from Bashenga’s bloodline was alive?—but Okoye said they didn’t care, and Ramonda said Bast knew best, and they never stopped holding T’Challa—as if making up for a lifetime of missed embraces.

He looked up and saw Steve, standing to the side, smiling shyly at them.

 _“ <Come,>” _he said in Xhosa. _“ <My love. Do not stand alone.>”_

Steve hesitantly stepped forward, not quite daring to get too close until he was drawn in by a laughing Shuri. T’Challa laced his fingers with him, and closed his eyes, and felt a panther bounding away in his head, returning to the great mysterious depths of the jungle.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this weird lil AU :D Comments always make my day!
> 
> Here are our [masterpost](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/post/175233391545/a-door-behind-a-door-written-by-nonymos-art-by) and [art masterpost](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/post/175233367635/at-last-i-can-post-all-the-art-for-my-caprbb) if you want to reblog us on Tumblr. ♥


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